


Changing Tides

by carpemermaid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blow Jobs, Coming of Age, Community: hd_erised, Cultural References, Dumbledore's Army, Emotional Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Frottage, Gardens & Gardening, Hand Jobs, Healing, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Ministry of Magic, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Non-Penetrative Sex, POV Alternating, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Patronus, Person of Color Harry Potter, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Professor Harry Potter, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Burn, Snogging, Soulmates, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wandless Magic, War AU, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-04 19:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 109,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12778137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/pseuds/carpemermaid
Summary: Draco has spent half of his life spouting the things his father has taught him without much thought about howhefeels about what he says. When he unexpectedly comes face to face with the Dark Lord, he grapples with the harsh realities of the world and struggles with his changing views on life. Instead of doing what’s expected of him fifth year, he joins Dumbledore’s Army and learns how to defend himself, how to make his own choices, and how he can be something greater than his father’s example as he grows into his own man rather than his father’s shadow. The choices he makes change both his and Harry’s fates, intertwining their paths until they converge.





	1. PROLOGUE — JULY, 1995

**Author's Note:**

  * For [matsuocop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/matsuocop/gifts).



> Happy Erised, Saltkat! I was thrilled to create this gift for you! Your art is so charming and I adore seeing it in fandom! Now, you’re going to think I’m a little crazy, but I looked at your prompts and thought to myself, you know, there’s a chronological story there. Between that and the fact that I connected with a lot of your likes, this story ended up getting quite long. I did not initially set out to write a 100k slowburn as my submission for erised, but, well, here we are. I hope it brings you some enjoyment when you get the time to read it! No rush, of course! The end of the year is always a crazy time.
> 
> The section titles come from Elvis’ song, Can’t Help Falling in Love. This story took a village to write, so I’m endlessly grateful to the heaps of encouragement, support, hand holding, cheering, and friendship from a whole bunch of amazing people. Thank you to my brilliant beta, [**Bixgirl1**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1), for joining this crazy ride with me right from the start, from the planning stages all the way through to the end, I definitely could not have done this without your help. Thanks for always catching my crazy and making it sound like actual words. I’d also like to thank [**Aibidil**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil) for helping me out when I was planning the story and for always letting me talk your ear off when I got stuck. Special shout outs and thanks go to [**Mxlfoydraco**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mxlfoydraco) for your suggestions and [**Digthewriter**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/digthewriter) for being amazingly helpful with your insight and help checking the cultural aspects of this story. Another big shout out of love goes to the drarry discord chat for having my back with all the countless hours spent sprinting and for cheering on all of the erised creators while we worked on our assignments. And, of course, thank you to the mods, who are lovely goddesses of patience and granted me more time when this story just would not end. To anyone who reads this story, I really hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As a surprise birthday gift, this fic now has some glorious fanart to go with it for **Chapter 4** by **@caroll-in** , [check it out here on tumblr](http://caroll-in.tumblr.com/post/172443372724)

**PROLOGUE — JULY, 1995 — LIKE A RIVER FLOWS**

Draco crept along the plush carpet that ran along the hall from his bedroom to the grand staircase. The heavy raindrops pelting the windows helped to mask any telltale sounds the old house made as he snuck away from his bed at the late hour. He would normally just cast a Silencing Charm—the Ministry never cared about Hogwarts students using underage magic in pure-blood households—but a strange, tense feeling in his gut made him go without it.

He could hear the low sound of voices floating up from his father’s study and they drew him closer, his curiosity getting the better of him. If Figsy knew he was out of bed at this hour, the elf would not be best pleased with him, no matter that he bent to Draco’s command. He thought he was getting much too old to be looked after by a house-elf now that he would be going into his fifth year at Hogwarts when the fall term started anyway.

A flash of lightning illuminated the hall and the loud, rumbling boom of thunder that came immediately after made Draco jump as his heart skittered in his chest. In a brief moment of panic he’d jumped against the wall—thinking he was caught—and flattened himself to hide behind an ornate, oversized portrait frame. A Scottish terrier in the painting sniffed eagerly at the frame’s edge where Draco hid with bated breath.

It had been an oppressively hot day for the beginning of July, but the thunderclouds had loomed on the horizon and rolled in after dinner.

Draco had only arrived back from Hogwarts two days prior. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but as he continuously paced around his bedroom picking up knickknacks and old toys only to put them down shortly after, he felt restless and unsettled. His bedroom felt suffocating, and he swore every portrait that hung on the Manor walls was whispering to the paintings beside them.

Everything felt different after he had returned to Malfoy Manor for the summer.

After the Third Task for the Triwizard Tournament, Draco felt as if something had shifted in the air; everything seemed slightly askew in his life. He wasn’t sure things would ever go back to the way they were before. Seeing Harry Potter return to the entrance of the maze with Cedric Diggory’s lifeless body had struck a dissonant chord in him. Seeing the pure-blood Hufflepuff—the true champion of Hogwarts—with his father breaking down and screaming over his dead body, terrified Draco; it shook him to his core with a deep unease.

There were whispers among the crowd that night about the Dark Lord making his grand return, and the rumours hadn’t stopped in the days that followed. At the Leaving Feast, Dumbledore had announced it outright to the entire Great Hall, which was draped in sombre black hangings instead of the usually festive Inter-House Championship decorations. Panic had spread through the Great Hall at Dumbledore’s blunt announcement that the Dark Lord had murdered Cedric Diggory. Draco had muttered to Crabbe and Goyle, questioning the accused actions of the Dark Lord. It didn’t make any sense for the Dark Lord to kill a pure-blood. Draco had been outraged that Dumbledore had then gone on to honour Harry Potter for his _bravery_ , when Draco had been sure that Potter just wanted the glory for himself, another half-blood stepping over a pure-blood to gain advantage. The only defiance he could show without disrespecting Diggory’s memory was to remain seated when Dumbledore praised Potter, his favourite little puppet.

Despite Potter’s ill-deserved spotlight, Dumbledore’s parting words still echoed in Draco's head as he left the Great Hall: _We are only as strong as we are united, weak as we are divided._ He couldn’t shake them, even after leaving Hogwarts.

On the train returning to London, he’d had to put on an indifferent mask so that his friends didn’t suspect the uneasy shifting inside Draco, couldn’t tell that he was starting to feel scared. It was this feeling that propelled Draco into stalking the corridor of the Hogwarts Express to seek out Potter’s compartment, lashing out against his rival and barely believing his own taunts about choosing the losing side. Hot, boiling anger had rushed through him while haranguing Potter and his friends; bitter memories of Potter refusing his friendship bubbled to the surface of his mind and he’d shouted the harshest words he could manage, spitting that Potter’s friends would be next on the Dark Lord’s list. Draco didn’t recall what happened after that—the three of them were woken up hours later by the conductor and had been taken straight to St Mungo’s to be sorted out in the Spell Damage ward for reactions to combined hexes.

The unease became worse once he returned home. Father was unusually tense, and Mother had become stricter, ordering Draco to retire to his bedroom directly after dinner. Draco had caught them whispering to each other at odd hours three times so far in the two days he’d been home. And neither of them would tell him anything, clamming up with pinched grimaces when he was discovered listening to them.

The unsettled energy was the reason he was sneaking downstairs to see why his father had company over so late at night—after Mother had surely retired to bed. A glance at the ornate grandfather clock at the top of the staircase confirmed it was after midnight. Draco was definitely meant to be in his room for the night. His parents still insisted on a curfew for him, even after he’d complained that he was old enough to stay up later; he was practically grown, and mature enough to not need a curfew as if he was still a child. Draco had nearly thrown a strop over Father’s final word on the disagreement.

The sky lit up with another burst of lightning, making strange shadows stretch across Draco’s path.

He hurried down the steps, skipping the last two with a leap and landing on his bare feet into a crouch with a muffled sound. He smirked at himself, feeling like the hero of a wizard espionage novel as he slowly straightened and carefully crossed the main hall to Father’s study. The thick mahogany door was cracked open, the golden firelight from inside spilling out into the dark corridor in a long column of warm light. Draco could hear the murmur of voices more clearly as he drew nearer, holding his breath.

“…much to do now that I have been reborn anew,” a cold, high-pitched voice was saying. The voice made Draco pull up short and his heart skip a beat.

“We have carried on in your name, Master,” another simpering voice insisted. “Those of us who remained loyal to you.”

“Not all of you remained loyal, or do I need to remind you again?” 

Draco took a chance and stepped close enough to peer through the opened crack in the doorway.

The people gathered wore black robes and filled the room, surrounding his father’s ornately carved desk, where an unfamiliar figure sat half-shrouded in shadow. One of the room’s occupants shifted and Draco saw ghostly white skin and red eyes when light from the fire fell on the unfamiliar guest. An involuntary cold sweat broke out across the back of Draco’s neck.

 _The Dark Lord_ , Draco realised with an uncomfortable jolt. He’d heard from the rumours whispered among the students on the Hogwarts Express that he was a monstrous sight to behold based on their outlandish fabrications, but now Draco could see it for himself.

He was not as Draco had imagined so many times when he was with his friends from school. This was not the man Draco pictured when he thought of the Dark Lord going after Potter when he was a baby. He never expected him to resemble Death itself, with shockingly white, leathery-looking skin and a manic twist to his mouth.

His face was flat, with only slits for nostrils, and he was as thin as a skeleton despite the billowing robes he wore. The sinister red of his irises and the way his eyes slitted—snake-like and calculating as he looked around the room at his followers—unsettled Draco, made him feel jittery as he spied into his father’s study.

Draco didn’t see Father at first; he was too overwhelmed with taking in the others that filled the room and listening to the chilling high-pitched voice as it chastised his Death Eaters. He recognised Crabbe’s father kneeling and bowing his head before he saw his own. Crabbe’s hands were shaking.

Draco’s father stood close to his desk where the Dark Lord sat, his hands clasped behind his back. His long hair was loose and stood out in stark contrast against the blackness of the robes he wore. His face was pinched in a way that Draco knew meant his jaw was clenched; it was an expression he wore often when he was unhappy with a situation.

“My Lord, if I may, the Potter boy returns to the Muggle relatives where he was in hidden from our world during the summers between Hogwarts terms. The protection may be broken enough for you to touch him physically, but surely Dumbledore took other precautions to guard the boy while he remains there,” his father said. He seemed to choose his words with great care, and when he was done speaking he bowed his head to the Dark Lord.

“I know this already, Lucius,” the Dark Lord said. His voice was almost sibilant, making Draco shiver. “You need not remind me of useless information you only learned because of your son’s eavesdropping rather than your own initiative. Besides, Wormtail confirmed this fact before.”

Draco froze in his hiding place. Did the Dark Lord suspected he was there listening in on the meeting?

“You are all a great disappointment to me,” the Dark Lord continued saying with an air of laziness, as if he were growing bored of their company. Perhaps he _didn’t_ know that Draco was there; Draco was able to relax infinitesimally. “After letting Potter escape in the graveyard, I don’t know why I let any of you live.”

The room was silent, except for the anxious shifting and shuffling as one by one each Death Eater sank to their knees.

After a tense beat, the Dark Lord waved his hand impatiently.

“Get up, you fools. You’re wasting my precious time,” he reprimanded, his voice dripping with disdain. “As I said, there is much to discuss. Now that I have returned in full, we may proceed with more important plans. Hogwarts and the Ministry will have to wait for the time being, though little Barty was very helpful with his efforts during the last several months with his impersonation of the Auror. What I want to do first is discover more about the prophecy that led me to Harry Potter in the first place. I want to concentrate on solving the mystery of it first, before we move onto our larger schemes.”

Draco blinked in surprise. It was really true, then. The Auror they had all known as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had been someone else disguise. His body twitched with the memory of being turned into a ferret and flung into the air, the humiliation still bitter as it swept through him. Draco scowled at the reminder.

“…need to forget Potter for the time being. Another opportunity will present itself,” his father was saying in a measured tone, far more reserved than Draco normally knew him to be. “We might shift our focus to the Order instead of Potter, should it reform now that the news of the Diggory boy’s death is spreading.”

The Dark Lord pulled a sour face and tossed his head. He hissed something under his breath and Draco went stiff at the sight of a giant snake, bigger than he’d ever seen before, slithering across the Persian rug and up into the Dark Lord’s lap. He stroked a finger delicately over the scaled snout of the snake and turned narrowed eyes on Lucius. It occurred belatedly to Draco that he’d just heard the Dark Lord speak in Parseltongue. It sounded just like the sibilant sounds Potter had made in their second year during the Duelling Club.

“Do not presume to tell me what we should and should not do, Lucius. Your thirst for power is not well-masked by your calculated words,” the Dark Lord sneered. “I’ve already told you of my disappointment in you for losing that diary and weaseling your way through the Ministry ranks instead of remaining loyal to our cause in my absence. You are treading on eggshells, and I would be more than happy to make an example of you, old friend.”

“Yes, my Lord,” his father murmured quickly, bowing his head respectfully. Draco could just barely make out the way Father’s face was draining of colour. Father’s voice echoed through his head, reminding him that Malfoys never showed their weaknesses.

“The Diggory boy does not matter. He was not of good pure-blood stock if he was going to stand against us, the impertinent child—just like any Mudblood-sympathising blood traitor. He might as well have been a Weasley at that point, no matter his pure breeding,” the Dark Lord proclaimed with a dismissive air.

Draco was surprised. The Diggory family was well respected in the pure-blood community as far as he could tell. He remembered Father mentioning Amos Diggory—namely his impeccable work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures—when they arrived at the Quidditch World Cup. Cedric Diggory was highly thought-of as well, and it was a great honour for him to be selected as the Hogwarts Champion, no matter that Potter was chosen as well, stealing part of that glory away from Cedric. Draco wondered if the Death Eaters actually had something to do with that, considering how the Third Task had ended with Potter raving about a graveyard. Draco had just been close enough to hear his mad ramblings as Moody—or rather, Crouch, he’d surmised from listening to his father—drew him away from the scene in front of the maze.

But the Dark Lord just dismissed Cedric’s death as if it meant absolutely nothing. As if every pure-blood life wasn’t precious, every drop of their blood sacred and in need of preservation. A skilled wizard in the making, with pure blood, and an exceptional Quidditch player—none of those things mattered to the Dark Lord, apparently.

Draco wondered how much he really cared about pure-blood culture after all, despite the promise of their superiority over Mudbloods and Muggles. Draco had been led to believe that the Dark Lord’s goal was always to bring their society out from the shadowed cobwebs it hid behind into the light where they belonged.

Draco could remember so many nights standing before his father in the same study, the smoky scent of the crackling fire mixing with Father’s selection of brandy and the spiced cologne he typically wore lingering in Draco’s nose as he drilled the truths about the world into his brain. It had excited him the first time Father pulled him into the study after dinner, made him feel like he was growing up into a man when he was given his first small sip of bittersweet brandy. Draco had spluttered and choked on it, but still he felt important as his father chuckled at him over the lip of his glass, amused.

That night was the first he’d told Draco about the importance of what the Dark Lord believed and why it was so crucial for pure-bloods to follow his ideals.

Now Draco felt like everything he knew about their life and culture, everything he’d been taught, was crumbling before his eyes. He shook himself out of his disbelief to pay closer attention to the meeting.

“…kept locked away in the Department of Mysteries, sir,” one of the other Death Eaters was explaining. “Might we do anything about the members of our exalted ranks that are trapped rotting in Azkaban?”

The Dark Lord stroked the head of his oversized snake as he mulled this information over. Draco missed whatever it was they were seeking in the Department of Mysteries, too lost in his own thoughts.

“Yes, we should do something about that. I’ll need Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and the others back by my side,” the Dark Lord confirmed. “You would all do well to remember her example of loyalty.”

Draco knew he could only mean Bellatrix Lestrange, his mother’s sister. She’d been imprisoned in Azkaban since he was a small child; he barely remembered her. The only glimpse of a memory he could conjure was a mass of dark curls so unlike his mother’s fine hair.

“I’ve been ever so loyal, Master,” a simpering, stout man proclaimed, shuffling closer on his knees to where the Dark Lord sat in Lucius’s leather chair. “I sacrificed my hand for your rebirth.”

“For which you were handsomely rewarded, Wormtail,” the Dark Lord crooned, making Draco’s stomach turn unpleasantly. He got the impression that the Dark Lord was truly capable of terrible things when he caught the glint of the fire on the silver hand the man called Wormtail sported.

Draco didn’t want to know why anyone would have to give their hand. He flexed his own into fists as he shifted carefully from the cramped position he held himself in; his neck was beginning to grow stiff and uncomfortable from the tension coiling in his body.

“But rewards can be just as easily taken away. After all, who can really trust a man who would turn on those he called his friends once?” The Dark Lord shot Wormtail a sinister grin, chuckling.

Draco did not envy the pudgy man; Wormtail’s face melted into an expression of sheer terror, possibly dreading what would become of him if he lost the Dark Lord’s favour.

“My Lord,” Lucius cut in, his nose nearly touching the gleaming surface of the dark cherry desktop as he bowed. “We were discussing the matter in the Department of Mysteries. I believe my connections at the Ministry could be useful in gaining access.”

The Dark Lord scoffed and reached out a hand, his fingers gnarled and long, to grip a fistful of Lucius’s hair in a taut hold. Draco could see his father grimace and go very still. “Do not interrupt, Malfoy. You have grown quite impertinent in the intervening years that I’ve been away. Perhaps I should keep you close just to teach you some manners. Take note everyone; good breeding does not withstand the test of time.”

The Dark Lord let loose a vicious bark of laughter that was echoed less enthusiastically by a few of the Death Eaters.

Draco’s heart was in his throat as he watched his father humiliated at the hands of the Dark Lord. As Father was made to kneel at the Dark Lord’s feet and kiss his dragonhide boots, all Draco could think of was the stern and proud echo of Father’s words: _a Malfoy bends to no one_. Draco’s whole body shook with tremors as he watched the Dark Lord reprimand Lucius and the others gathered, berating them for something that seemed trivial. Draco wondered if the Dark Lord even cared about his closest and most loyal followers. He could barely stand to listen and watch any longer, but part of him was frozen in place, terrified of being caught eavesdropping on the meeting.

If the Dark Lord could bring his father to his knees—so obediently, with such ease—what could he do to Draco?

Just as Draco was gathering the strength to creep back up to his bedroom—where he should have stayed—another bout of harsh hissing filled his ears. Draco closed his eyes tightly.

“Ah, it seems we have another guest,” the Dark Lord announced, sounding amused. “Come in, little Draco.”

Hearing the Dark Lord call his name made Draco’s stomach bottom out unpleasantly. An icy lick of terror sped down his spine. He would rather be turned into a ferret again than walk into Father’s study and face the frightening sight that was the Dark Lord. Draco contemplated running away for a moment before the Dark Lord called again, sounding more impatient the second time. Draco didn’t think he’d be given a third chance.

He quickly entered the room, hiding his shaking hands behind his back in a poor imitation of his father. His shoulders were too stiff, and his muscles felt bunched tightly together from trying to hide the way his body shook with tremors of fear. Draco glanced at the large snake in the Dark Lord’s lap as he walked to the centre of the room, watched its tongue flick out to taste the air.

He wondered if it could taste his fear from across the room.

“Nagini tells me that you’ve been standing at the door for some time, young Malfoy,” the Dark Lord said as he stroked the snake’s head.

Draco couldn’t find his voice at all, and only managed a tremulous nod.

“It’s so late at night for you to be out of bed,” the Dark Lord pointed out. After a beat he tilted his head, studying Draco. A grin slowly spread on his face. “Ah, but you must feel you are old enough to make these decisions for yourself, am I right? I remember what it felt like when I was your age. Especially with magic at your disposal, you feel the world is yours to control.”

The Dark Lord chuckled as his long fingers continued to pet his snake. Draco dared not look directly into his red eyes, nor did he look to his father or the others he knew. He kept his gaze down at the scrolls spread across the desk’s blotter, his self-preservation instincts flaring strongly.

“Tell me, young man, did you learn anything of value while you were eavesdropping?”

Draco tried to find his voice from whatever place it had fucked off to—he honestly attempted to say something, but his mouth had gone completely dry. He tried swallowing to clear the sandpaper feeling from the back of his throat, but it felt as if he’d swallowed his tongue and got it lodged partway down. When he cleared his throat, the only sound that came out was a strained wheeze that made the Dark Lord snicker with wicked delight. Draco helplessly jerked one shoulder up in a pathetic ghost of a shrug.

The Dark Lord clapped his hands together, making Draco jump. With one rotten look, Draco knew that he was well aware of Draco’s fear and discomfort. “We were just getting to an exciting discussion on what the next steps of my plans are.”

His gaze slid over to where Lucius was still kneeling by his side and his lips twitched in amusement. He considered Lucius for a moment before he turned his attention back on Draco.

“Does this all seem exciting, young Draco?” he crooned. “If your Father has raised you right, then I’m sure he’s taught you how important it is to take pride in being a pure-blood.”

Draco wasn’t sure if he was actually supposed to answer these questions or not. He was too afraid to risk opening his mouth and saying the wrong thing. If the Dark Lord was happy to bring his entire group of most loyal followers to their knees over a trivial comment, he could only imagine what he might do to Draco for saying the wrong thing. He didn’t seem to care much that Cedric Diggory had died at his wand, and Draco did not want to be the next pure-blood to suffer the same fate.

The Dark Lord didn’t seem to notice his lack of response. Draco chanced a glance around the room at the others gathered and his searching look caught on another face he recognised. Professor Snape.

Their eyes met and Draco held his gaze for the span of several heartbeats. If Professor Snape was there, that meant that the Dark Lord had access to Hogwarts from the inside; a spy in Dumbledore’s midst. Draco swallowed and snapped his eyes back to the desk blotter before the Dark Lord noticed his wandering eyes and mistook his behaviour for impertinence.

“How old are you now?” The Dark Lord contemplated him, his fingers idly tapping his chin.

“F-fifteen,” Draco answered, his voice stumbling. It took him two tries to even get any sound out. Draco thought it was a miracle his voice didn’t crack.

“I see. Come closer, let me get a better look at you,” he commanded. Though he was speaking softly, the demand was clear in his voice. Draco didn’t want to find out what would happen if he didn’t obey.

Draco stepped forward on shaky legs. Somehow the small distance between the spot he stood and the desk seemed far greater than it really was. Each step was harder to take than the last; every fibre of Draco’s being was screaming at him to turn on his heel and run in the opposite direction.

When he was close enough, the Dark Lord reached out to him. Draco focused each cell in his body on not flinching when the cold hand fell on his shoulder, squeezing firmly as the Dark Lord studied him with a thoughtful expression. Long fingers dug into his sensitive skin as they dragged down his arm to circle his wrist and pull back the sleeve of his evening robe. Draco always bruised easily thanks to his creamy complexion; this was sure to leave a reminder on his skin.

“You’re too young, yet, but someday soon, dear boy, you might have the honour of bearing my Mark,” the Dark Lord murmured in a quiet voice that made Draco’s blood run cold and his skin crawl.

At one time, not that long ago, he would have revelled in the glory of joining up with the Death Eaters. He did not feel anything close to glory with the Dark Lord’s touch burning into his skin like a thousand small needles pricking him.

He wanted the Dark Lord’s hand off of him as soon as possible. He was biting hard into the meaty flesh of his tongue to the point his eyes were nearly shining with unshed tears just to keep quiet and still as the Dark Lord stroked a ghostly pale finger up and down his exposed forearm.

“You’ll know glory, little Draco,” the Dark Lord continued. “When you join the ranks of my Death Eaters.”

Draco nearly choked as he tried to swallow. There was a scream building in his chest that he wanted to let loose, but he had to hold it in. Was this how Potter felt when he faced the Dark Lord? They were the same age, and yet Draco couldn’t imagine having the courage to even raise a wand to this man, let alone stand up straight without pissing himself.

He was grateful when the Dark Lord finally released his arm. Draco snatched it back to his side as discreetly as he was able to manage, rolling the sleeve of his robe down to cover his unmarked arm.

The Dark Lord slid his gaze over to Father and muttered sharply, ”Lucius. We have work to do now.”

The mirth had vanished from his cold features and a stony mask settled over his expression, his red eyes flitting around the room to survey the Death Eaters. Father stood stiffly and addressed Draco.

“Go to bed, son,” he said seriously, his voice low and quiet.

Draco did not even wait until Father was done speaking before his feet were carrying him from the room as quickly as possible without breaking into a run. He didn’t give the room a backwards glance, not even to his father or Professor Snape.

When Draco reached the bottom of the grand staircase he sprinted up them, taking them two at a time. He didn’t stop until he was behind his bedroom door, nearly slamming it closed in his haste to get away.

With jerky movements, Draco drew his wand. It took him two tries, but he cast a passable _Colloportus_ on the door. He realised after a moment that the odd wheezing sound in the room was actually coming from him as his breath came in sharp bursts while he struggled to get enough air in his lungs.

Draco stumbled blindly over to his bed and collapsed onto it, scurrying under his covers and pulling them over his head, feeling very much like he was five instead of fifteen. He curled up into a tight ball on his side, hugging his knees to his chest and pressing his forehead against them. After several minutes he was able to breathe close to normal again, his chest aching from the adrenaline and dried tear tracks on his cheeks.

He lay awake listening to the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat while he kept an ear out for any sound coming from the hall outside his bedroom door.

He did not sleep that night.


	2. PART 1 — HOGWARTS, FIFTH YEAR

**PART 1 — HOGWARTS, FIFTH YEAR — SURELY TO THE SEA**

When Draco’s fifth year at Hogwarts started, he did his best to put his encounter with the Dark Lord at the beginning of the summer holiday from his mind. He had O.W.L.s to worry about, and his father still expected him to best Granger in all of the courses they shared. He managed well enough, at first, focusing on his studies and holding court with his Slytherin friends.

A few weeks into term, though, Draco’s nightmares of the horrible night returned. His father had allowed him a special brew of mild Dreamless Sleep throughout the summer, but its calming effects wore off once the term started to get underway.

Draco blinked up at the canopy hanging over his bed, shrouded in darkness. He could hear Crabbe—or possibly Goyle—snoring enthusiastically. It was probably very late at night or very early in the morning. He was grateful it was a Saturday, so he wouldn’t be overtired in class from lack of sleep.

He rolled over and wrapped his arms around his pillow, burying his face against the soft fabric. He couldn’t remember his dream in its entirety, but his mind supplied him with brief flashes of the Dark Lord’s red eyes and ghostly white face, his expression twisted into a crazed grin. Draco’s stomach clenched and he squeezed his eyes tighter. He hoped he could put off following in his father’s footsteps to join the Death Eaters for as long as possible, dreading the thought of being near the Dark Lord anytime soon.

He wondered if taking the Mark would hurt. Did it burn? Was it an icy pain? When Draco thought of the skin-crawling sensation of the Dark Lord’s finger touching his bare skin, he shivered. Would the Dark Lord simply laugh at him while he writhed in pain and then kill him off for being weak, another pure-blood snuffed out from the wizarding world at the Dark Lord’s hand?

Draco inhaled deeply, trying to calm his racing heart. He pressed his face further into the pillow and only pulled back when he found it difficult to breathe. Mother and Father wouldn’t appreciate Draco smothering himself in such a dramatic fashion simply because of a nightmare—even if it was out of fear of the Dark Lord.

Draco flopped onto his back gracelessly, feeling restless. He didn’t want to try to sleep again, not yet. He bit his lip as he considered asking Professor Snape for more of his modified Dreamless Sleep Potion.

As he lay in the dark at the late hour, Draco’s thoughts drifted over the meeting at the Manor earlier in the summer. He’d oscillated between compartmentalising it and pretending it never happened at all, and over analysing it to consider what was to come.

On the one hand, Draco thought, the Death Eaters supposedly stood for reforming the government and forcing the Ministry to take the wizarding community out of the shadows that they hid behind with the Statute of Secrecy. Draco agreed with that sentiment—wizards were not inferior to Muggles, and they deserved to show their power freely without fear of being discovered. And what was more: the pure-bloods were the most superior of the wizarding society. Granger’s academic skills aside, Draco knew he was more magically gifted than more than half of the half-blood and Mudblood students at Hogwarts.

And then Draco tried to picture himself as a Death Eater, wearing the same black, billowing robes that they had at the meeting, standing over one of his classmates with his wand at their throat, a Killing Curse on his lips. He pictured the intense fear in their eyes and imagined them looking just as lifeless as Cedric Diggory had when the Portkey had deposited Potter and Diggory’s body in the entrance to the maze. He tried to believe himself capable of it, like he would have claimed before eavesdropping on the meeting in the summer.

Draco’s stomach turned at the mental image. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to take steady breaths through his nose to ease the wave of nausea that washed over him.

He tried again, working to picture a faceless Mudblood, even going so far as to give himself a reason for wanting to end their life: they had bested him for his N.E.W.T. results and was picked over him for an academic study programme at wizarding university.

He failed, panting against his pillow with hot breaths, his throat tight from the effort not to become emotional over a faceless nobody that his imagination conjured.

Draco couldn’t see himself standing in the ranks alongside his father, or Crabbe’s father, or Professor Snape. He couldn’t even contemplate whatever plans they had discussed for gaining access to the Department of Mysteries. Draco remembered that it had been a focus of the meeting, but he couldn’t recall exactly what their intentions were.

He swallowed thickly and curled onto his side, feeling overheated and cold all at once. He flipped the heavy coverlet off his upper body and let the cool, damp air of the castle dungeons soothe his feverish skin through his thin pyjama top.

Unbidden, Draco’s mind drifted to Potter and his do-gooder gang of friends. His eyes snapped open and he stared unseeing at the vague shadow of his bed hangings.

If Draco wasn’t planning on joining the Death Eaters, did that mean he was on Potter’s side? Did it mean he would have to face off against his own father and follow Potter into battle?

He immediately scoffed under his breath, gripping his pillow tightly. Picturing Potter—a gangly fifteen year old who looked underfed at the start of every term—leading an army of wizards and witches in white robes against a mass of Death Eaters in black robes, led by the Dark Lord, was a laughable image.

No, he decided. Draco wouldn’t take a side, wouldn’t get involved in the mess at all. He would keep his head down and avoid thinking about the Dark Lord altogether. He would only focus on his studies.

Besides, he reasoned with himself, it wasn’t like he could do anything at fifteen. When the looming darkness on the horizon inevitably descended, then Draco could take Mother—and hopefully even Father, if he could manage—and they would ride everything out in the south of France with their cousins. It would be lovely; they could avoid it all while sunbathing on the beaches and drinking expensive champagne. Surely it would all happen after he was out of Hogwarts, no matter what the Dark Lord thought he could plan in the meantime. It didn’t matter to Draco if a few Death Eaters were broken out of Azkaban, none of it would be a true worry while he was safe at school. He could apply to wizarding university programmes in France instead of the ones he was considering in Britain.

Draco smirked to himself and felt drowsiness begin to return, dragging him back to sleep.

*******

Draco was sitting at breakfast in the Great Hall further into term when his father’s eagle owl flew in with the morning post. He could see it arcing and swooping high with the other birds circling the Great Hall, seeking out their targets to deliver mail to. From his seat at the Slytherin table, Draco could see the crisp silver seal his father favoured on the folded letter attached to the owl’s leg.

The eagle owl’s sharp eyes zeroed in on Draco and he fell into a twisting dive towards the Slytherin table. Pansy moved her cup of tea without comment right before Father’s owl dropped into the vacated space with skillful grace.

Draco clenched his fingers around his spoon and stiffly ate another bite of porridge before acknowledging the eagle owl sticking its leg in Draco’s direction, pinning him with an imperious look that rivaled his father’s.

“Don’t make him wait, Draco,” Pansy said in a simpering tone beside him. She reached out slowly to stroke the back of two fingers over the owl’s sleek feathers and Pansy cooed when it preened for her, making a pleased vibrato sound in its throat. “Would you like a treat, Grendel?”

Draco groaned under his breath, annoyed with Pansy’s familiarity with his family’s owl. He watched with a deliberately unimpressed expression while she offered a piece of juicy bacon for the bird to take, chatting to him and complimenting him in a soft undertone.

“Yes, you’re such a fierce owl, aren’t you?” Pansy cooed.

“Don’t indulge him, Pansy, it only goes to his head,” Draco said with a tired sigh. Merlin, he was only fifteen, he didn’t think he should sound so tired. O.W.L. level classes were taking a toll on him. “He’s so impossible to deal with when you call him a pretty owl.”

“But he is a beautiful owl,” Pansy protested, still stroking Grendel’s feathers. “Take the letter.”

Draco stubbornly ate another spoonful of porridge before turning to the owl and untying the note from its leg.

He knew it was another letter from his father; he’d started sending them shortly after term began. Draco began dreading each one when they shifted with an increasing lack of subtlety—hinting at Death Eater activity and how wonderful it will be for Draco to eventually follow in his footsteps. In the last one, his father spoke of a great gift for Draco. Talk of receiving a present typically excited Draco, but his father’s wording only set his teeth on edge.

His father already hinted twice about Draco taking the Mark after his seventeenth birthday. Draco felt it was a little too soon to be contemplating taking the Dark Mark while he was still in school and two years out from his father’s plans.

Draco masked the tension in his face, shooting Pansy and Blaise a practiced smirk before opening the letter and skimming its contents. It contained more of the same, his father making overtures about what was expected of Draco.

Draco wanted to press his lips into a thin line, but his friends were watching him closely. He couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t take any signs of weakness and use it to their advantage. Blaise didn’t seek power in the same way he did—how Draco enjoyed being the centre of attention in the Slytherin common room—but he didn’t put it past Pansy to not want to take control in the way Draco had.

Instead, Draco kept his face neutral and folded the letter. In between Father’s heavy-handed hints at Death Eater activity and his well wishes for Draco’s school term, he mentioned his mother having tea with Mrs Greengrass. The little detail gave Draco pause. Father only brought up his mother’s social activities when Draco was the topic involved.

His eyes flicked farther down the table to where Daphne and her younger sister sat. Daphne was in his year, and always had the other boys panting after her, but her sister was two years younger than them.

It mattered little to Draco—he was already struggling to meet his father’s expectations of him. Draco was increasingly aware that he was no longer the model son his parents wished him to be.

Draco’s eyes shifted past the Greengrass sisters to a handsome seventh year boy seated near them. He had an angular face and striking blue eyes. Draco’s gaze flickered down to his lips for a beat before siding away. He could never look for too long: the other Slytherin students were always too watchful, like hawks, constantly on the search for any weakness to exploit.

Draco glanced back at the letter and re-read the portion about Mother’s visit with Mrs Greengrass. Father mentioned that they were an extremely well respected pure-blood line and that it was an honour to consider the family close friends of the Malfoys. Draco dragged his teeth over the inside of his lip and wished, for a brief moment, that he could just _be_ what his family wanted him to be.

It was disrespectful enough to his parents that Draco was contemplating turning against his father’s Master, but he had to struggle not to let his attention linger where it shouldn’t. Draco feared he would be nothing like the son his parents wanted to raise.

He’d started noticing the way boys pulled his gaze more and more the previous year—especially after watching the Second Task with Omnioculars, pointing them at Diggory and Krum after they’d emerged from the lake dripping, their clothes clinging them. Draco remembered clenching his hand in his robe to distract himself from the way his cheeks prickled with heat.

When he’d become aware of it, he started to turn his memories over in his head and realised that even before he’d become aware of how he felt towards boys—instead of girls, like he was supposed to feel—that Draco lost count how many times he’d been attracted to wizards, and even a few Muggles from the trips to London with his parents, when he was younger and didn’t understand what any of it meant.

Now Draco understood it better.

He grimaced every time he thought about his duty to his family, that someday he would have to marry a pure-blood witch that his parents approved of and actually _kiss_ her and _touch_ her and produce an _heir_ with her. Draco had already mulled his future over and resigned himself to picturing the most attractive men he could think of while performing his marital duties. Part of him feared that he wouldn’t be able to even remain interested long enough to go through with it. Blaise and other Slytherin boys already gathered in tight circles in the Common Room, whispering smugly to each other about how wet a girl could get, holding up their fingers and wiggling them when they described touching girls. The older boys would always join in and regale them with tales of their escapades. They detailed ways to make a girl scream her head off and profess her undying love for their tongues and cocks and fingers, the boys from Draco’s year hanging on every word with wide eyes.

Draco had been forced to agree with the other boys, chuckling along as if he knew what any of them were talking about. He had blackmail on Pansy from fourth year that led to an ongoing arrangement where she told everyone they had fumbled together at the end of the term. Everyone bought it easily, and how could they not when Draco was at the top of the proverbial food chain in his year?

The only true knowledge Draco really had was how his own prick felt in his hand when he touched it, hot and velvety and slick, picturing the curve of a bicep and muscular thighs. Draco spent the entire summer distracting himself with clippings of fit Quidditch players from Quidditch Weekly, hiding them in a box with a Charmed compartment that had been a birthday gift.

When Draco snapped back to attention, Pansy was still cooing at his owl, feeding it more bacon than the bird deserved. His eyes caught Blaise’s and he wanted to hide from the knowing look Blaise tipped him, glancing down to where Draco’s lap was hidden by the table.

“Off in your head there?” Blaise teased lightly. He made a vulgar gesture with his hand so that only Draco could see it.

“I— _no_ ,” Draco protested, flushing with embarrassment. He didn’t know what his face had been doing, but he knew that remembering the magazine clippings hidden at the bottom of his trunk, still protected in the secret compartment of his Charmed box, always made his groin throb with excitement. “I was just—never mind.”

Draco cleared his throat and took meticulous care refolding the letter from Father. His eyes caught on the first few sentences again and his shoulders tensed.

Potentially condemning himself to a disappointing marriage in the future was one thing, but openly disobeying his father and eschewing the Dark Lord was another matter entirely.

Draco was torn between obeying his father and the unsettling, bone-chilling terror that he felt whenever he thought of the Death Eater meeting from the summer.

He pocketed the letter, burying it deep in his robe, and turned to Pansy.

“Let the wretched creature go before he falls in love with you and tries to do some sort of mating dance, Pansy,” Draco said.

She snickered and continued to pet his owl. “Oh, Grendel, it would never work out between us, darling. Go on.”

Pansy snuck one last scrap of bacon to Grendel before nudging him dismissively. The owl hopped around the table, darting an indignant peck at Draco’s hand, before taking off in a whoosh of air. Draco grumbled as he tended to his sore thumb, rubbing it and being thankful the mutinous bird didn’t break the skin.

“Bloody flying rat,” Draco muttered while Pansy turned her attention on him, pulling his tender hand into hers and making a show of kissing it better.

Draco pulled his hand away too quickly and returned to his abandoned porridge, only marginally grateful that his arrangement with Pansy kept his wandering eyes off the radar of the other Slytherins.

*******

Draco first heard the whispers about Potter’s renegade group in late October, though he didn’t know at the time that Potter and his constant shadows were in charge of it.

At first, he dismissed the rumours of students meeting to practice Defense Against the Dark Arts as the ramblings of students with imaginations too big for their heads. Umbridge had already got the Ministry to approve her changes to the school’s curriculum, ensuring that their DADA classes focused only on theory rather than the suggested practical material at the end of each chapter.

Umbridge forbade the students to even read through the practical lesson descriptions, because, as she said, “Surely you will never need to actually _use_ this information, dears.” She claimed that the Ministry kept the wizarding community safe, and that they would never encounter Dark wizards.

Potter had been quick to make a scene, speaking out of turn—arrogant as ever. But he’d said the Dark Lord’s name right there in the middle of their class, claimed that he had seen him. Umbridge dismissed his outburst easily, her voice triumphant and saccharine.

Draco hated to agree with Potter, but he, too, had come face to face with the reality that the Dark Lord had returned. He held his tongue and remained silent.

Umbridge assured the class once more that they were perfectly safe, and that no harm could possibly come to them.

Draco might have believed with her, once. He always used to think the class was pointless and stupid. He never would admit to anyone, even under pain of _Crucio_ , that he ever enjoyed Professor Lupin’s DADA classes, even though he secretly preferred Lupin to any professor they’d had thus far. Draco hated Moody—or rather, the Death Eater impersonating him—on principle after the ferret incident.

However, after the encounter with the Dark Lord over the summer, Draco found himself curious about the suggested practical course material.

He’d debated the merits of finding a space of his own to try out some of the spells the textbook contained, but he didn’t want to be caught out by Filch or have to serve detention with Umbridge. Draco heard she could be unpleasant, and he didn’t fancy spending any amount of time in her kitten plate and doily covered office. Draco pulled a face just thinking of it, so the first couple of times he caught wind of the hushed rumours of a rogue group of students, he perked up and began to take notice.

When he heard a pair of fifth year Ravenclaws whispering about a meeting in the library, Draco narrowed his focus on them, his ears straining to hear. They were speaking so quietly that he nearly stomped over to their table to demand to be let in on their secret, but didn’t want to look insane.

He committed the students to memory and vowed to keep a close eye on them to work out the mystery behind the meetings he kept hearing bits and pieces about. It seemed—whenever he snuck after them—that they were always disappearing before Draco could see where they’d gone. It was becoming increasingly annoying. He was determined to find out what was going on just to have some peace of mind, the mystery like a tricky puzzle he wanted to solve.

It took Draco two weeks of sleuthing and hanging nonchalantly around in corridor alcoves, but he finally managed to catch one of the students he’d seen sneak around.

“Evening, Corner,” Draco greeted. He was aiming for a polite smile, but something told him he might be coming off a tad manic, judging by the look Michael Corner gave him, shrinking back against the wall.

“Malfoy,” Corner said, raising his chin.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you,” Draco said. “You see, I heard you and your friend in the library the other day—”

“You can’t report me for talking in the library!” Corner blurted.

Draco paused, his mouth still hanging partially open. “Well, no. You’re right about that. I’m not going to report you for anything.”

“You’re just a Prefect. You’re only meant to take points from your own House, so you can’t take any from me for disrupting the library,” Corner said defiantly.

Draco huffed in exasperation. He wasn’t trying to take _any_ points, let alone reprimand Corner. He rubbed at his temple and decided to try a different tactic.

“Look, if you’ll just listen to me for a moment,” Draco started, gesturing emphatically as he spoke. “I’m not here to talk to you as a Prefect, I only wanted to tell you that I’ve been watching you sneak around.”

Corner’s eyes widened comically and Draco replayed his words in his head. He supposed that might have come off as threatening. He rolled with it, growing impatient that Corner would not let him really explain why he wanted to know more about the mysterious meetings.

“That’s right, I know exactly what you’re up to,” Draco said, letting a hint of menace drip into his voice.

Corner glared at him.

“I may not be able to take points, but I _can_ set a detention for you for being uncooperative,” Draco challenged. “How do you like the sound of that?”

“That’s not fair!” Corner cried, his face twisting into a moue of displeasure.

“I won’t give you a detention… _if_ you tell me what I want to know,” he said threateningly, trying to control his frustration at Corner’s refusal to answer. “What are these…meetings I keep hearing about? You were talking about one being organized in the library.”

Corner froze, his face a quavering mask that Draco could see straight through. He shook his head and Draco felt himself losing more patience by the second.

“What do you mean, _no_ —I _heard_ you, myself,” Draco said, stepping forward and grabbing hold of Corner’s school robe. He shook him once. “I want to know when and where these meetings take place, and you’re _going_ to tell me!”

“No, I won’t!” Corner spat. “You’re practically one of them, aren’t you?”

“One of _who_?” Draco asked, confused. He was getting nowhere with Corner.

“You’re going to be a Death Eater! All of the Slytherins probably are. All you do is bang on about blood purity and call people like Hermione Granger awful names,” Corner said, voice dripping with hatred.

Draco stumbled back, feeling as if he’d been slapped by the accusation that he would become a Death Eater—that it was inevitable. Did all of the other Houses think that way about the Slytherins? Draco could only speak for himself, but he knew that he would never be able to pledge loyalty to the Dark Lord, not after truly seeing him.

Part of Draco wanted to scream or punch Corner for saying such things, but he reeled himself in. He stepped back into Corner’s personal space and pinned him with a deadly serious look, grappling with the desperation flaring in him, ready to bubble over.

“I’m _not_ going to be one of them,” Draco said severely. He gripped the front of Corner’s robe in both hands, squeezing the material between his fingers so tightly his knuckles went white. As he continued to speak, his words came out faster and faster, until he was nearly shouting directly in Corner’s face. “I never want to be one of them. All I want is to _learn how to protect myself_ , just like the rest of you supposedly are, if you believe what people are whispering about!”

They were both stunned into silence by Draco’s outburst, the tail end of Draco’s voice echoing in the deserted corridor. Draco exhaled and stepped back once more, releasing his death grip on Corner’s robe.

“I—please,” Draco said haltingly before Corner could even speak.

Corner gaped at Draco, and it made him feel uncomfortably exposed and raw, like he’d ripped away a curtain to reveal himself. After a few more silent, awkward beats, Corner cleared his throat. He seemed reluctant to speak, but finally he told Draco what he wanted to know.

“It’s on the seventh floor. There’s a meeting once a week, when we can manage. You don’t have the coin, so you won’t know when the next one is, but if you keep an eye on the seventh floor, then you’ll be able to get in for the next one. The meeting times change to keep Umbridge and Filch off our scent,” Corner explained in an undertone. “Just be ready at a moment’s notice and you should be able to find it.”

Draco hadn’t actually expected that telling the truth, the one he was keeping wrapped up tightly and tucked away deep inside of himself, would earn him the answer he wanted. He tilted his head, considering Corner with a long look to see if he might be lying.

“I hope you aren’t faking,” Corner said shrewdly. “It would be bloody rotten of you to ruin something for the rest of us for no reason.”

“I’m not,” Draco said. “Faking, that is. I really am interested.”

“Fine,” Corner said. “If you’re lying, I’ll be sure to tell Potter it was your fault. He’ll deck you for it if you report us.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Potter?”

“You’ll see,” Corner said, smirking.

Draco supposed he should have guessed; between Potter’s outburst in class and his knack for always being at the centre of any illicit happenings at Hogwarts, Draco shouldn’t even be surprised anymore.

“So, see you there, I suppose,” Corner said, side stepping Draco and walking down the corridor.

Draco watched him go before he spun on his heel and strode in the opposite direction toward the dungeons.

*******

It took some inspired thinking on Draco’s part, but he came up with the perfect plan for sneaking away from Crabbe and Goyle. They were like his constant shadows, always hulking around on either side of him—an arrangement that typically worked well to intimidate anyone into submitting to him. But when Draco wanted to get away from them, it became a hindrance rather than a symbiotic balance between them.

Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle were hanging around Draco in the common room, bent over scrolls of parchment, studiously working on their assignments for Transfiguration. He slid his gaze over to the clock on the mantel for the third time in the last half hour. Draco was eager to get away, anxious and on edge.

Earlier in the day, Draco had passed Corner in the corridor and bumped into him purposefully, under the guise of asserting his superior dominance when he was really seeking more information on the illicit Defense practice meetings. Corner whispered in his ear that the meeting would be that night.

Draco had gone about his day as best he could, hoping he managed to keep his plan to join the meeting well masked with a blank expression.

As naturally as he could manage, Draco made a show of stretching his arms over his head to ease the stiffness in his neck from hunching over his essay. He sighed theatrically and began packing his things away into the bag sitting on the floor by his feet.

“Done already?” Nott asked with a hint of envy in his voice. He wasn’t half as good at anything Draco succeeded in, despite the way he went on about things pretending that he was a proper swot.

“Nearly. I have to go, though,” Draco said, carefully keeping his voice flat with boredom. He needed to make sure Crabbe and Goyle didn’t follow him; they would be harder to ditch if they left the common room. “Time to patrol for my Prefect duties, and then I have a private meeting scheduled with Professor Snape.”

“Want us to go with you and wait outside Professor Snape’s office?” Goyle offered, already moving to pack up his own schoolwork.

Draco held up a hand to keep him at bay. “That won’t be necessary. You and Crabbe should remain here and finish this assignment so that you’ll be readily available. We can’t have you _both_ falling behind.”

Draco tilted his head and looked at them both pointedly. They exchanged a dim glance with each other and shrugged. Goyle settled back into his seat, blinking slowly at his work. Draco surveyed the three of them for a beat, just to be certain they lost interest in his evening plans. If he made any sudden moves, they were likely to become suspicious.

Satisfied, Draco waved at the three of them dismissively with a curt, “Gentlemen,” as he stood, puffing his chest out importantly. He strode out of the common room, and only allowed himself an exhale of relief when he was two corridors away from Slytherin.

He was early still; his plan was to scope out the top floor so that he was ready for anything, as Corner had suggested. Draco made his way to the seventh floor at a measured pace and hid behind a tapestry-covered alcove, waiting for several long minutes until he finally heard footsteps approaching. When Draco discreetly peeked out from his hiding place, he saw students trickling through a door that he swore hadn’t been there when he arrived. He frowned at the door, trying to place it as his eyes continued to track the students entering it.

People came down the corridor in pairs and small groups—small enough that Filch wouldn’t suspect them of gathering against Umbridge’s strict wishes. Draco could see the cleverness of it, and found himself reluctantly impressed with the organizational talents of his peers.

Draco spotted Michael Corner passing by his hiding spot with Cho Chang and another Ravenclaw girl Draco often saw her with. There was no one else coming down the hall, so Draco silently stepped out behind them, following them through the open doorway with the flow of students. Draco kept his head down and faded into the back of the sizeable group.

He glanced around quickly as they entered, his brows rising in surprise. The room was larger than Draco expected it to be, with mats stacked against one side of the room and practice targets lined up beside them. He couldn’t recall any other room in the castle that resembled a classroom like the room.

He saw Potter standing with Granger and Weasley at the front of the room next to a bulletin board, talking to Weasley’s younger sister and Loony Lovegood.

Draco ducked his head when Potter glanced in the direction of the students Draco was standing behind, trying his best to blend in. He hoped to stay hidden in the back of the gathered group and just watch to assess what he was getting himself into. He could easily pick out Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws from a few different years. Draco didn’t notice any other Slytherin students, however, and he knew that would make him stand out more.

A small part of Draco—or, rather, a large, sore part—felt a burst of indignant offense that he was the only Slytherin to have found his way to the secret meeting. He bit down on the urge to stomp to the centre of the room and throw a rousing strop over being the only Slytherin there. If Potter and his cohorts were in charge, Draco was sure it was his doing that the Slytherins had been excluded from this little club. He clenched his hands to keep himself from giving in to the desire; it would only serve to out him sooner—and Draco definitely wanted all of the information he could absorb and observe about how the meetings worked before he revealed himself.

“Let’s pair off, everyone,” Potter called over the din of chatter in the room. “We’ll review where we left off with the last meeting before we move on to something new.”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat when everyone began to move away from the side of the room, spreading out and leaving him vulnerable. He wasn’t going to be able to hide behind a wall of students, left exposed when they parted to reveal him. He darted his gaze quickly around. Perhaps he could snag Corner and still hang near the back of the room. He was just about to grab Corner as a partner when he paired off with Anthony Goldstein, foiling Draco’s plan.

“Oi!” Weasley shouted, catching sight of Draco and startling him from his running thoughts. He pointed and gripped Potter’s shoulder, wheeling him around to bring Draco’s presence to his attention.

“What in Merlin’s saggy—” Potter’s disbelief was clear on his face as he cut himself off.

Before Draco could even react, Weasley and Potter both zeroed in on him, striding towards him with a burning fury in both of their eyes. His heart tripped over itself, indecisive about whether it wanted to leap into Draco’s throat or plummet to his feet. Draco took a half a step back as they reached him, feeling the wall at his back.

“What the hell are _you_ doing _here_ , Malfoy?” Potter spat in his face. His wand was drawn and pointed at Draco’s nose. A hush fell over the room, all eyes on them.

Draco stood his ground, grinding his teeth together while his pulse went rabbit-quick, thumping through his veins. He met Potter’s furious gaze with his own steely determination. He would be damned if Potter kept him from this. He itched to pull out his own wand and fight with Potter; it was an effort to fight that deeply ingrained instinct. Draco took a tremulous breath and let his hands splay flat over the paneling on the wall behind him, both to keep himself from giving into self preserving instincts and to show his obvious intent not to fight Potter. If he remained unarmed, Potter wouldn’t hex him. In theory, that is.

“Same as the rest of you, I suspect,” Draco said defensively, raising his chin a fraction. His voice did not come across as confidently as he’d hoped. Draco let the uneasy silence fill the spacious room for a beat or two before continuing, meeting Potter’s eyes once more. “Doing all I can to ensure I receive the sorry excuse for a full education this school is supposed to be offering.”

Potter narrowed his eyes. His anger hadn’t faded in the least and he took another step closer, jabbing the tip of his wand against Draco’s cheek. “How did you even find us?”

“Corner,” Draco answered, letting his gaze shift to where Corner stood off to the side with Goldstein. “If you make me leave before you even get started, I’ll go straight to Umbridge.”

Draco was satisfied to see a muscle twitch in Potter’s cheek as his expression worked through several conflicting emotions at once. He smirked at Potter and crossed his arms over his chest, satisfied that he’d won their pissing contest.

“That’s bollocks!” Weasley growled. He stood at Potter’s shoulder and glared daggers at Draco. “Harry, we should toss him out on his sorry arse. He’s not one of us. The minute he sees what we do here, he’s going to run his tongue to Umbridge, or Filch, or _Snape_. We can’t trust _him_.”

“Fuck off, Weasel,” Draco sneered, his arms tightening and his fists balling tightly. Emotion welled up from the pit of Draco’s stomach, bitter and burning hot, and it bled into his voice, unbidden and vehement. “I just want to make sure I can pass the damn exams at the end of term. This is material we’re meant to know. If Umbridge refuses to teach us, I need to find some way to learn—just as you lot are doing. I need it more than most of you…none of you know what’s really been going on out in—”

Abruptly, Draco clacked his teeth together to shut himself up. He had been about to blurt out that he knew what was out there because of what happened over the summer. He glared at Potter, his jaw working.

Potter paused at that, looking from Weasley to Granger, who came up on his other side with her mouth in a thin line.

Potter glanced suspiciously at Draco once more before turning to tug at Granger and Weasley’s robes, herding them into a huddle a short distance away. They whispered to each other and appeared to be discussing what to do, if the way the three of them kept obviously looking over at Draco was any indication. Weasley was making jerky movements, jabbing his thumb in Draco’s direction, while Granger kept tapping her finger against her lips.

The other students in the room—Loony, Longbottom, the girl Weasel, and the rest—were blatantly staring him down. Some, like Ginny Weasley and Longbottom, were openly glaring at him, making it crystal clear that he was unwelcome. Others, like Corner and Goldstein, merely eyed him with a bland curiosity. Draco affected a bored expression and swept his gaze over the group, randomly snagging on Zacharias Smith, smirking at him as if he thought himself truly superior to Draco. He nearly scoffed, wanting to gesture at the smug tosser and shout at Potter that if _Smith_ was allowed to participate, then Draco should absolutely be granted access.

At last, Potter and his ever-present sidekicks broke apart from their impromptu debate and re-approached Draco as a united front. Weasley looked mutinous, his shoulders tense and creeping up toward his ears. Draco guessed that meant things had fallen his favour rather than Weasley’s, and he just barely managed to keep a triumphant smirk off his face as he looked to the other two. Granger looked disconcerted and deeply concerned, but Draco suspected she might have made a case for him based on a strictly academic merit and fairness, even for someone who took every opportunity to point out her inferiority to him as he did. Potter’s face was, as usual, an open book—calculating and suspicious, his lips pursed. None of them spoke and the silence stretched out. For a brief moment, Draco was worried.

After letting the air grow stale and uncomfortable—save for the quiet whispers from the other students—while Potter studied him until he was fighting the urge to squirm under his scrutiny, Potter finally spoke. “We’ll let you stay…for now. The minute you step out of line, or do anything to get us caught, I will make you very sorry you ever crossed us.”

Relief poured through him, but Draco didn’t let that show. He snorted and tossed his head, stepping into Potter’s personal space and gleefully taking advantage of the inch or two of height advantage he had on Potter.

“Oh, you’ll _let_ me stay? Get off your high horse, Potty,” Draco snapped, drawing himself to his full height to appear more intimidating. “You’re a bunch of renegades circumventing Umbridge’s decrees to learn Defense spells, not training to go off and fight Death Eaters in the real world,” he pointed out. When Potter opened his mouth, a protest surely on the tip of his tongue, Draco continued to talk right over him. “That hardly warrants this surly attitude you’re adopting—oh, or is that just because that’s how your face always looks?”

Potter’s expression darkened and Draco tensed, feeling the magnetic discharge in the air that preceded a duel; his fingers tingled with the anticipation of drawing his wand and casting.

“Er, Harry?” Cho Chang piped up. Potter whirled to look at her. “It’s just—we’re halfway through the meeting. Could we maybe get started?”

“Right,” Potter said after an awkward beat. “Yes. Ron, Hermione?”

“Into pairs, everyone,” Granger said. She began to walk away, but paused to toss over her shoulder, “Malfoy, you’ve made our number uneven, so you’ll just have to find a pair to rotate in with.”

“Fine.” Draco swept an assessing look over the students near him and settled on his original plan of working with Michael Corner. He walked over and stood nearby.

“Wands out. Assume duelling position and practice your Protego and Expelliarmus,” Potter announced. He paced along the lined up duelling pairs until he was standing at the front of the room by the bulletin board again.

Draco made a mental reference of where in the Defense textbook they were meant to be at that point in the term and frowned. He knew it wasn’t the same as learning from an actual, qualified professor, but he’d expected they would follow the text—especially with Granger and the Ravenclaws involved.

No one protested, though. Other students around them were already following the suggested directions and casting back and forth.

“Corner, Goldstein, I’m working with you,” Draco declared. Corner shrugged, but Goldstein considered him with an uneasy look. Draco noticed and huffed impatiently. “Don’t wet yourself, Goldstein. Corner’s about to disarm you, and then I’ll jump in and hex you,” he threatened.

“That’s not a fair fight,” Goldstein said, scandalised.

They began, taking up the proper stances. Spells volleyed back and forth between them and Draco watched, bored. Goldstein completely lost his duelling focus and cried out when one of Corner’s spells hit him, causing his wand to pull from Goldstein’s grip, arc through the air, and sail directly into Draco’s open palm. Goldstein made another noise of protest, his voice cracking.

“That—you can’t just—you aren’t even the one I’m duelling with!” Goldstein wailed.

Draco rolled his eyes. He noticed Potter approaching in his periphery and handed Goldstein’s wand back. Potter stopped several steps away and watched their trio.

“Don’t whinge about what’s fair,” Draco said. “I saw an opportunity and I took it; you can hardly fault me for that.”

Goldstein caught sight of Potter, too, and spun to appeal to him, gesturing towards Draco. “Harry! Harry, you can’t pair him with us. He’s cheated.”

“Actually,” Potter said slowly, reluctantly. He slanted an unreadable look in Draco’s direction. “Malfoy’s…right. Listen, this is what I was telling everyone about last week, Tony. It’s one thing to learn it for an exam, but it’s different out there. When you face off in a real duel, one where your life may be at stake, you don’t wait for fair. You’ve got to duel to win.”

Goldstein looked outraged; Potter looked put off that he’d agreed with Draco, fidgeting in the way he did when he was in the spotlight he loved so much. Draco was surprised by it, too, though he didn’t show it while Potter was around. Instead, Draco leaned casually against the wall while Potter spoke to Goldstein.

“Try again—and this time, cast your Protego before Michael makes a move,” Potter said. Draco expected him to move on to another group, but he stood by, observing as Corner and Goldstein squared off again.

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

“ _Protego_!”

Both spells had been cast nearly simultaneously after the pair of them had stared each other down. This time, Goldstein was successful, his shield of magic blocking Corner’s Disarming Charm.

“Excellent,” Potter praised. “Really well done, both of you.”

Draco blinked and peeked at Potter discreetly.

While more of the meeting unfolded, he remained quiet and watched, his attention tracking Potter while he moved around the room. It turned out that the meetings largely ignored the textbook entirely; instead, Potter seemed to focus on things _he_ already could do, rather than follow the curriculum they would’ve learned at their year’s level prior to Umbridge coming along. Draco held his tongue from protesting loudly about that fact as the meeting continued on, advancing to learning _Protego totalum_.

He was a little appalled to find that the other students were more practiced than Draco. He was able to keep up with them, but his Defense spells were not as strong as the others. Even _Longbottom_ could cast a stronger Protego than Draco’s.

At the end of the meeting, after Potter addressed the group to inform them of the plan for next time, Granger cornered Draco.

“Here,” she said primly, gripping his wrist with a surprising strength and dragging him over to a table that appeared in the corner as they approached.

Granger didn’t have a wand out to conjure with, and Draco knew he hadn’t done it. Having been brought up in the wizarding world, he was used to plenty of magic, but he’d never seen a room in the castle that could do what this room seemed to be capable of.

Granger presented him with a parchment with a list of names already on it. Scrawled across the top of the list was _Dumbledore’s Army_ , and Draco frowned at it.

“What is this?” he asked, feigning disinterest. He scanned the list and surmised that it was the students in the meeting.

“Our member list,” Granger said. “Sign it, please.”

“And if I don’t?” Draco pressed. “I don’t see why I need to add my name to this.”

“You do,” she insisted. “In order to come back again you’ll need to sign.”

A quill resting in an inkpot appeared on the tabletop beside the parchment. For a few seconds, Draco debated telling her that he might not come back, but he abandoned that thought when his mind flashed with the vivid memory of the Dark Lord’s finger stroking over his unmarked arm. He bit his lip and looked away so Granger wouldn’t see his face, giving himself a minute to calm down.

Once he cleared his mind, Draco huffed an irritated sigh, shooting Granger a flat look before picking up the quill and signing his name in neat, looping script. When he was finished, Granger cast a drying spell over the parchment and gave a satisfied nod.

“Welcome to the D.A.,” Granger said. She dug around in the pocket of her robe and held out a gleaming gold Galleon.

Draco nearly laughed. “I don’t need your money, Granger,” he said snottily.

She rolled her eyes and looked at him with a flat, disinterested expression. “It’s a charmed Galleon. This is how we communicate when there is going to be a meeting.”

“Oh. Alright, then,” Draco said. He took the coin from her and turned it over, examining it.

“See you next meeting, Malfoy,” Granger said dismissively. She rejoined Weasley and Potter.

By that point, most of the other students had left, going the same as they’d arrived in groups of twos and threes. Draco hesitated for only a moment, glancing over to Potter and his friends. He stepped out into the hall and made sure his Prefect badge was prominently displayed—his excuse for being out if he ran into Filch.

In his pocket, the charmed Galleon felt heavy, carrying all the weight of Draco’s decision to involve himself with Potter’s miscreant rebellion. He wrapped his fingers around the coin and turned the corner to descend the steps back down to his dormitory.

*******

Draco felt the coin burn in his pocket the following week and it startled him so badly that he nearly upended the potion he was working on, just barely managing to salvage his cauldron before it tipped over off his desk. Professor Snape raised an eyebrow at him and Draco flushed with embarrassment. He hadn’t had a mishap in Potions class since third year. He cleared his throat and straightened his tie self-consciously to mask his suspicious glance toward Potter, Granger, and Weasley. They were two desks over and Draco swore he saw Granger putting her wand away.

He thought it was just a prank, until he’d examined at the Galleon at the end of class and noticed a message around the edge informing him of a time and date. Draco put it together and tilted his head with a faint, “Huh,” reluctantly impressed at the ingenuity.

He felt a flutter of excitement in his stomach and pocketed the Galleon once more. On his way to his next class, Draco slanted a quick, discreet nod in Potter’s direction when their eyes met.

The excitement all but melted away in practice the more he attended the D.A. meetings. His defensive techniques were lagging behind the others—even the handful fourth years at the meeting were more adept at managing than him. His inefficiency made a sore spot begin to fester in his chest, only growing more acidic and poisonous each time he was too slow to block who he was duelling against or successfully hit the target dummies set up when they practiced offensive magic.

They were working on Blasting Curses one night when Draco reached his boiling point. Potter had them lined up and stood by after offering some vague advice about stationary versus moving targets. One by one the line moved forward. Draco was behind Ginny Weasley and Angelina Johnson waiting for his own turn, watching with a bored air.

Weasley stepped up and glanced once at Potter with bright, mooning eyes that made Draco want to gag. He knew she was only attending the meetings to follow him around. Only, when she took her stance, her saccharine expression melted away.

“ _Reducto_!” Her spell was powerful, decimating the target until it was nothing but rubble.

The Weasley twins whooped with pride, coming up to flank her on either side while the rest of the students cheered her on.

“Wow, Ginny,” Potter said, and Draco would swear Potter sounded a little breathless.

Draco ground his teeth together, his jaw clenching. They were meant to be casting Blasting Curses, not Reductor Curses. Potter droned on to everyone about the importance of using whatever was in their spell repertoire to their advantage or some such rot—Draco only listened with half an ear. All he could focus on was the mentor-like pride in his tone when he addressed everyone.

“Size doesn’t prove power!” crowed one of the twins—Draco could never be sure which one was which, he’d given up long ago. The other twin chimed in with a wide grin, “Our Ginny’s a little firecracker.”

Weasley was flushed, but looked pleased at the praise. She peeked up at Potter through her lashes and tucked a lock of fiery hair behind her ear with coyness that looked practiced. Draco wondered if she repeated it in the mirror in her dorm until it looked effortless.

“Yes, bully for you,” Draco said snidely, elbowing his way to the front of the line and cutting in front of Johnson, who elbowed him right back. Draco rubbed at his chest where her bone had dug in and waved his free hand at the remnants of the target statue. “The rest of us would like our chance to practice, so shove off.”

“Piss off, Malfoy,” Ginny said, turning her pint-sized fierceness on him. “You’re such a twat.”

“Alright,” Potter said mildly. “Great job, Gin,” he added as she moved aside for Draco to take his turn.

Draco hated the warmth in his tone and shook out his shoulders to try to channel his annoyance into his flow of magic. Potter didn’t pay much attention to him, unlike when the others had gone. He didn’t offer Draco any of his faux-wisdom or pointers, merely gesturing for Draco to go as if he were an afterthought.

“Right,” Draco muttered in an undertone. He squared off against the dummy that the room conjured. After a few seconds of concentration, he hurled a curse. “ _Confringo_!”

His magic glanced off the side of the statue, managing to crack its arm off, but not doing nearly the same level of damage as Weasley had achieved. Draco sighed harshly through his nose and turned to Potter.

“This spellwork is stupid,” he complained. He heard someone scoff behind him and Draco would put his money on it coming from the Weasel.

Potter leveled him with an irksome look, his thick brows drawing down heavily in a frown. Weasley sidled up beside Potter and crossed his arms over his chest.

“If it’s so stupid, Malfoy, then why are you here every time we have a meeting?” Weasley taunted. His words sliced into Draco’s gut, but he wouldn’t give Weasley of all people the satisfaction of seeing Draco flinch.

“I told you,” Draco said through clenched teeth. “I want to do well on my O.W.L.s at the end of term.”

Weasley rolled his eyes and walked away after patting Potter on the shoulder, tossing out, “You wanted to keep him, he’s your problem, mate.”

Potter waved him off with a hum and bland look. He turned back to Draco and the line of people hovering behind him. “Okay, Malfoy, step aside and let Angelina go. You can get back in line and try again. Look—” Potter paused and tugged on the sleeve of Draco’s robe, looking constipated. “It doesn’t always come easy, so don’t, er, give up. It’s…not everyone gets it right on the first try.”

“Yes, we can’t all be blessed with the natural desire to run headlong into dangerous situations, like Gryffindors,” Draco said. He jerked his arm out of Potter’s grasp. “Or be granted that special Harry Potter brand of _talent_.”

Potter grimaced and stepped back, allowing Draco to return to the line. Each time he tried, Potter kept coming up closer to him and watching his technique with his arms crossed across his chest and his lips pursed in thought. Draco felt the uncomfortable lick of self-consciousness—uncomfortable with the attention for once, when he wasn’t performing as well as he ought to be—and it affected his casting.

Finally, Potter spoke up before Draco could try for a fifth time, the line dwindling to consist of only himself and a handful of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors who hadn’t managed as well as the others. Potter’s sycophants were all in a corner with Weasley and Granger watching over while they worked on throwing Blasting Curses at each other with a practice ward between them courtesy of Granger.

“Your grip is off,” Potter said.

Draco fell out of his casting stance and whirled to face him, bewildered. “ _What_?”

“I said your—”

“I heard what you said.” Draco cut him off. He ran a hand over his slicked back hair, scratching at the back of his head agitatedly. “That’s preposterous. My grip is fine—I’ve been holding a wand since I could _walk_.”

“Yeah, well, you’re holding it a little too tightly,” Potter said mildly. He stared Draco down challengingly. “Relax your grip a bit and try again.”

Draco shot Potter a glare that Potter returned mulishly. The seconds ticked by in time with the thump of Draco’s pulse in his neck. Potter raised his eyebrows and tipped his head toward him, and Draco huffed.

“ _Fine_ ,” he snarled.

Draco flexed his grip on his wand, feeling the hawthorn and unicorn hair core responding to his touch. He took a deep breath and cast his Blasting Curse once more, complying with Potter’s advice against his better judgment.

To his surprise, it worked.

It still wasn’t up to par with the level of power that Potter threw into his spells, but it was much closer to the standard that everyone else in the D.A. was at. Draco gaped at the now headless target statue, jumping slightly when Potter clapped him on the shoulder.

“There you go, Malfoy,” he said. “Keep that up and you’ll be just fine.”

Draco wasn’t sure, but Potter’s voice didn’t carry the same frustration and exasperation as it had thus far anytime he needed to interact with Draco directly. Instead, a slight hint of the same pride he had shown for Ginny Weasley crept into his tone—albeit much more watered down—but Draco couldn’t contain a smile all the same.

Potter moved on so he could help someone else and Draco peered down at the way he was holding his wand, trying to feel the differences between the grip he’d used his whole life and the way he’d held it to cast that spell. He swallowed down the emotion that was trying to surge up and stepped aside to watch the duelling pairs practicing.

*******

Draco started to feel more comfortable at the D.A. meetings, but it still stuck out to him like a sore thumb that he was the only Slytherin. It wasn’t natural, to be on his own like that. He always had at least one ally by his side; to be without one was very much like being the only snake at the mercy of a pride of lions. Only, he wasn’t just surrounded by Gryffindors, but also Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs.

Draco decided to do something about it when he became fed up with having to arrive to D.A. meetings on his own, or wait for someone marginally tolerable, like Corner, to join if he came across them on his journey to the seventh floor.

He strategically made a mental list of potential Slytherins to reveal his secret to and settled on the only person he was able to trust—if only, because of the blackmail material he lorded over her.

Draco sat with Pansy in the common room, her head against his shoulder while she scraped her manicured nails over his scalp. Their feet were propped on the same leather ottoman, warmed by the fire. Draco hummed low in his throat when Pansy’s nails raked over a sensitive spot at the nape of his neck.

“Mm, that’s very nice,” Draco murmured, basking in her ministrations. It suited him that Pansy was always willing to spoil him with her attention in the common room, keeping his secret and making them both look desirable to the other Slytherin students.

When it was like this, he wished he could find girls attractive; Pansy was his closest friend and he felt they would make an excellent team in wedlock. Only, Pansy’s father was always dabbling in trades that Narcissa and Lucius turned their noses up at.

Draco let his head loll in Pansy’s direction and whispered in her ear. “I need to talk to you about something. Want to sneak off to our favourite alcove?”

It was their cover for anytime they needed to speak in private, but worried about the eyes and ears of their peers. They would indulge in some heavy petting on the sofa in the common room before slipping away under the guise of letting their hormones get the best of them so that they could talk without any interruptions.

Pansy giggled coquettishly and batted at his chest. She angled her head and pressed a kiss to his cheek, letting her glossed lips skate across his skin to his ear. “It’ll cost you. I want you to look over my essay for Charms and re-write the closing for me.”

Draco sighed into the crook of her neck, nuzzling against her with his nose. He hummed in agreement, making it appear a though he were mouthing at her neck.

“Let’s go somewhere we can be alone,” Pansy said in a honeyed tone, allowing her voice to carry over the muted din of conversation in the room. No one was surprised when Draco stood and took her hand and looping an arm around her waist to lead her away.

When they were safely hidden away in a drafty alcove near the entrance to the dormitory, Pansy settled herself on the ledge and looked at him expectantly, dropping the flirtatious façade.

“Before you tell me whatever it is—and, so help me, Draco, if it’s about ordering another copy of Witch Weekly so you can clip out the interviews from that Kestrels player you like I _will _hex you—I want to also bargain for you to check my Potions assignment for that over the top display I provided you with,” Pansy said.__

__“I’m sorry, my dear, the negotiating portion of our evening has concluded,” Draco shot back. “You should’ve said before we left. It’s not to ask for another magazine.”_ _

__Draco hesitated while Pansy looked expectant. He slid his hand into his pocket and grasped the charmed Galleon between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it to ease his nerves. If he was wrong about Pansy, she could turn on him._ _

__“Well? I’d like to not come off as a complete slag for spending the majority of my evening _snogging_ you,” Pansy said, curling her fingers in the air with false sincerity around ‘ _snogging_ ’._ _

__“Have you heard any interesting rumours lately?” Draco started, watching her for any reactions. “About ways students have been circumventing Umbridge’s rules?”_ _

__Pansy examined her nails, shrugging with elegance and grace. “Here and there. Nothing exciting—just girls figuring out how to get around the decree about respectable space between them and the blokes they like. Why?”_ _

__“Well,” Draco said. He held himself stiffly to keep from fidgeting. “Only, I’ve gone and joined with a…study group. An unsanctioned one.”_ _

__Draco waited with baited breath, unsure of Pansy’s reaction. He trusted her more than any other classmate in his House, but he couldn’t be entirely sure how she would take the news that he’d gone and tossed his lot in with Potter._ _

__“And?” Pansy pressed, unmoved. “Congratulations, you’re as much of a swot as I’ve always known you to be.”_ _

__“Ah, well, see it’s just…” Draco made a vaguely frustrated noise and squeezed the coin harder between his fingers._ _

__“Oh, out with it,” Pansy said. “Circe’s tits, you’re so dramatic.”_ _

__Draco frowned at her and sniffed, tipping his nose into the air. Pansy shook her head and rolled her eyes, somehow exasperated and fond all at once._ _

__“Have you heard of the Defense Against the Dark Arts meetings?” Draco ventured._ _

__Pansy stiffened and sat up straighter, her attention honed on him. Her playful demeanor dropped away. “Yes. A bit.”_ _

__“I’ve joined them,” Draco said softly._ _

__He didn’t say anything else for a few moments, letting his admission stretch into the space between them. There was a distant echo of footsteps out in the hall, fading as the person walked deeper into the dungeons._ _

__Pansy flapped a hand at him uselessly. “Well why have you bloody gone and done that? Merlin, if Umbridge finds out, if your _father_ finds—”_ _

__“He won’t,” Draco said, quick and firm, his pulse skittering unpleasantly at the thought. He swallowed and repeated himself. “He won’t. He can’t. And Umbridge hasn’t a clue.”_ _

__“You’re insane,” Pansy said faintly, disbelief painting her features. Draco supposed she might grow into her pug nose, but in the throes of hormonal puberty he wasn’t sure what to make of her looks. All at once she snapped out of her shock and leaned into his space. “You’ve gone mad!”_ _

__“Yes, well,” Draco said, shrugging carelessly. “Tends to happen when the Dark Lord himself shows up in your father’s study over the summer hols to chat like you’re sharing tea.”_ _

__Draco’s voice dropped into a breathless whisper as he finally admitted to what had happened over the summer, finally saying it out loud for the first time. His stomach lurched and his muscles went tense with worry that he would somehow know what Draco had just said and swiftly find his way into the school to hunt him down. Draco swallowed the uncomfortable lump in his throat with some effort._ _

__Pansy’s shock returned, her face draining of colour in the dimly lit alcove. Torchlight flickered at its entrance, casting moving shadows over her grim expression._ _

__“You…he’s really back then,” she whispered. Draco could only nod, sick with the truth of it. “What was he like?”_ _

__Draco shook his head, his eyes wide and his heart kicking in his chest. His lips clamped together until it almost hurt. Draco could not detail that night for Pansy, not when he still suffered from the nightmares._ _

__“I can’t,” he finally said, his voice rasping. Draco cleared his throat and scrubbed a hand over his face._ _

__Pansy’s face worked through several different emotions as she processed this information. She blinked when something appeared to occur to her and she pointed at him accusingly. “You—you’ve joined these Defense meetings! And you’ve told _me_ about them! Oh my stars, is Potter involved in this? What am I saying—of course he is, it sounds exactly like that sanctimonious knobhead. If your _father_ ever—”_ _

__“He _won’t_ , Pansy,” Draco repeated, cutting her off. He took a step closer to where she perched on the ledge. “Listen, I want you to come to a meeting with me. That’s why I told you about it.”_ _

__Pansy looked like she might shriek, her cheeks going blotchy in the ambient light. Draco appreciated her self-control to not give them away. He held out his hands pleadingly to convince her._ _

__“Come with me. It’s…I’m the only Slytherin there and it’s not right. Do you want to get a Troll on your exams because Umbridge refuses to actually teach our DADA classes anything of practical use?”_ _

__Pansy made a helpless gesture and Draco tried again, going for something he knew would garner a real reaction._ _

__“Don’t you want to decide for yourself? Or do you want your father to just tell you what to do?” He was satisfied by the way her eyes flashed._ _

__Pansy crossed her arms and lowered her chin. “No one tells me what to do. Not you, or my father.”_ _

__Draco’s lips quirked up to one side. “Exactly. So, come.”_ _

__Pansy nodded in agreement and they returned to the common room wrapped around one another._ _

__At the next meeting, Draco signaled to Pansy and brought her along. When they arrived, Weasley threw his hands into the air, muttering, “That’s just bloody great, now they’re multiplying,” and stomped across the room to stand with his siblings and their friend, Lee Jordan. Pansy stuck by his side for the entirety, and after the D.A. meeting was over she hummed thoughtfully on their return to the dungeons._ _

__“They’re still morally superior arseholes,” she said primly. Her arm was looped into the crook of his elbow._ _

__“Yes,” Draco agreed._ _

__“But I liked the hexes. I’m going to try them out on Mumsy’s garden if she tries to make me attend the winter cotillion,” Pansy said with ill-concealed glee._ _

__Draco laughed as he escorted her down the corridors and staircases, glad that he had someone from his House to share the trip with._ _

____

*******

The fall term continued on, but things did not go smoothly between Potter and Draco. They continuously butted heads like they were rams, both during the day and at Potter’s D.A. meetings. Draco still took every opportunity to maintain what was expected of him, gladly taking out his frustrations on Potter and jeering at him outside of D.A. gatherings.

It marginally made up for the way Potter was able to tell him things like the proper way to hold his wand, as if he’d been brought up in the same world as Draco—as if he were on the same level as Draco, _equal_ to him.

The D.A. moved on to more complicated magic when someone asked about Patronus Charms, leaving Draco feeling like he was trailing all of them once more.

Potter was in the middle of explaining the theory behind the magic when Draco interrupted.

“What expertise could you possibly have to teach us better than a professor,” Draco scoffed. Pansy stood by his side, her hand latched onto his arm. Draco didn’t need to look to know that she mirrored his disdain.

Potter blinked, his hands still hanging in the air. He liked to speak with them, gesturing with wild abandon when he landed on a topic he liked. He rubbed at his jaw, a pink scar on the back of his tawny-skinned hand rippling as he moved.

“Think you can do it better, Malfoy?” Potter held an arm up to gesture to the open floor space. “Go on, cast a Patronus Charm, then.”

Draco stiffened, jutting his chin out. He felt heat prickling at his ears and his cheeks, remaining mutinously silent before spitting, “That’s an advanced charm.”

“Oh yeah?” Potter challenged. “I thought you were so clever—or isn’t that always what you’re trying to prove to Hermione when she beats your test scores?” Potter turned to the group and slipped back into instructor mode. “The Patronus Charm _is_ advanced magic, but it’s magic that you’re all capable of— _all_ of you.”

He shot Draco a pointed glance before he took a breath and continued. “Professor Lupin helped me to learn it in third year.”

“Can you really cast a Patronus, Harry?” piped up one of the Hufflepuffs, sounding impressed.

“Yeah,” Potter said and drew his wand. He shot one last challenging look at Draco before holding up his arm, his voice firm when he cast: “ _Expecto Patronum_.”

A blindingly white light burst from Potter’s wand, the form shifting until it reshaped into a powerful looking stag. It pranced around the room, as proud as Potter on any given day, circling the group before stopping beside Potter. He looked at his Patronus fondness softening his green eyes, bringing up a hand to almost touch the silvery snout of the ethereal stag.

At his side, Pansy was digging her nails into the meat of Draco’s forearm, likely feeling the same as he did. He let his jealousy over Potter’s successful spell coil tightly in the pit of his stomach.

Draco wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the sight of Potter’s Patronus—the proof of his power—left Draco a little breathless.

Potter continued explaining the theory behind successfully achieving the Patronus Charm for the duration of the meeting and they continued in that vein for the following meetups.

After a meeting or two, everyone else was able to conjure their Patronus—or at the very least, a misty cloud of protective magic, in Longbottom and Pansy’s cases—Draco felt he needed some extra help and set a plan to talk to Potter about it. Even with his newly practiced wand grip, he just wasn’t advancing to his expectation.

He decided the obvious thing to do was to stage a fight in the corridor between classes so that no one would suspect the real reason for Draco needing to speak to him. He didn’t have time to send notes and set up a clandestine meeting time outside of the prying eyes of their classmates.

When Draco saw Potter coming from the opposite end of the corridor in the middle of the day, he steeled himself and quickened his pace, heading straight for Potter. He slammed his shoulder into Potter’s roughly, knocking him off balance so that he stumbled over his feet.

“What the—” Potter fumbled and gripped a fistful of Draco’s school robes, dragging Draco with him as he lurched sideways toward the wall. “Malfoy!”

Draco scowled, not entirely for the sake of theatrics, and socked Potter with a punch that he pulled, jabbing at his side with pent up frustration. Potter blocked the blow and growled, retaliating with a punch of his own. Potter didn’t pull his punch and Draco grunted when pain bloomed in his jaw.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Potter hissed.

Students gathered around and cheered, entertained by a fight in the halls to break up the monotony of the school day. Draco had to make it quick, before Filch or a professor came to stop them.

“You! _You’re_ my problem, you gormless wanker!” Draco countered, throwing another punch that Potter swatted away, his hand clamping around Draco’s wrist in an ironclad hold. Draco hissed and struggled against Potter’s grip, shuffling closer under the pretense of stomping on his foot. “I needed to talk to you and this was the fastest way.”

Potter paused in attempting to twist Draco’s hand around at a painful angle and some of the fury cleared from his eyes. “What?”

Draco kept up the imitation of the fight and sank his elbow into Potter’s chest, earning a gusty, “ _oof_ ”, from Potter and ducking just in time when Potter retaliated by trying to knock his head into the wall.

“Ow, you great oaf! I’m—for Merlin’s _sake_ , stop trying to break my wrist,” Draco spat. He lowered his voice and pretended to snarl in Potter’s face. “I need extra help. With my Patronus.”

Potter blinked, bewildered. He froze so that they were locked in a nearly intimate hold without the adrenaline of a fight behind it. Draco was entirely too aware of how close they stood and how many eyes were on them. Draco felt his face grow warmer and repeated himself to cover up for it. “You need to work with me one-on-one to help me learn it properly.”

Draco didn’t wait for him to answer, wrenching his arm free from Potter’s slack grip and throwing another punch. Potter made a frustrated noise and caught Draco in the stomach, practically knocking the wind out of him. Draco doubled over, gasping. Potter leaned over him and pulled him close, fisting the material of his robes.

“Alright,” Potter muttered. “Where do you want to go? The room? The forest?”

“The _forest_? Are you—are you bloody _mad_?” Draco spluttered, blinking quickly to clear the spike of adrenaline that rushed through him when he thought of the horrid detention from first year. “I’m not going back into that forest ever again.”

“Fine,” Potter said. He shook Draco, making it look like he was making a point while he had Draco at his mercy. “The room then? We can’t get caught.”

Draco mulled that over while he knocked his head into Potter’s chin, smirking at the pained sound Potter made. He hoped his teeth clacked together.

“The room then,” Draco said, getting in Potter’s face. Potter cupped a hand over his mouth and jaw, gingerly rubbing where it was sore. “Tonight?”

Potter shook his head, his eyes flashing with annoyance. “I’ve…got a thing. Tomorrow night works, though. Nine o’clock?”

“That’s acceptable,” Draco said. “You’d better avoid being caught by Filch. I have Prefect privileges to protect me, but that’s after curfew for you.” Draco tilted his head and smirked. “Time for the big finish. Better make it look good, Potter.”

Potter looked like he was about to ask what Draco meant when Draco kicked at his shins. He scowled at Draco and shoved him aside without retaliating, stalking off down the hall in a huff. The students gathered parted easily for Potter as he strode away, the air crackling with a buildup of magic.

Draco shivered, feeling the dull ache in the places he would bruise as he watched him go; he could _taste_ Potter’s power in the air.

*******

Draco steeled his nerves as he entered the room alone the following night. There was something different about seeing Potter one on one, without the rest of the D.A. members filling in the chasm of space between them.

Potter wasn’t there yet. Draco released a tense breath, rolling his shoulders to try to relax. He peered around and quirked a brow when the room seemed to shiver and shift, just slightly. It looked as it normally did, with practice mats and target statues and a tall ceiling, but there were a few additions and changes that made Draco pause with curiosity.

There was a lounge that looked straight from his favourite parlour at Malfoy Manor with a Victorian sofa set and a squat marble table. He hesitated before walking over to it and was delighted when a tea set appeared. Draco sat down and helped himself, his eyes lighting up when a plate of biscuits popped into existence.

Draco was halfway through his cup of tea and two biscuits deep when Potter finally strode in, stuffing a heap of fabric into the pocket of his robe.

“You’re late,” Draco said, just to be contrary. He could be doing other things rather than waiting around at Potter’s mercy.

“And you want my help, so you’ll just have to deal with it,” Potter said, unruffled. His eyes snagged on the biscuits and he snatched two for himself. “I see you’ve been making use of the room.”

“This appeared when I got here,” Draco said, looking back to the tea set and furniture that wasn’t normally in the room. “This room is quite marvelous.”

“It is,” Potter agreed. “Be glad that Umbridge doesn’t know about it.”

Draco brushed invisible crumbs from his shirt and stood gracefully. He’d discarded his robe twenty minutes ago, draping it over the arm of the sofa.

“Shall we get started?” Draco gestured to the open space. He swallowed down the nerves that had reared up once more, feeling jittery in his own skin.

He hadn’t said to Pansy or Potter or anyone, but thus far, whenever he’d attempted to cast the Patronus Charm, all he could think of was the Dark Lord’s horrifying face rather than the happy memories he was meant to fill his mind with.

Potter rubbed at his jaw and nodded. He took off his robe and tossed it onto the sofa carelessly. “Right, so what has you stuck with your Patronus?”

“If I knew that, do you think I would be needing additional help from you?” Draco asked, tossing an incredulous look over his shoulder when he walked across the room to the open area near the practice mats. “What a terrible instructor you’d make.”

Potter frowned, dropping his eyes to the floor. His shoulders hunched for a moment before he shook his head and walked over to join Draco.

“Okay,” Potter said, taking a breath. He seemed just as off kilter as Draco felt, being alone without the D.A. to act as a buffer. His jaw worked for a moment before he drew his wand. “I need to know what part you’re struggling with. Can you try so I can see?”

Draco stiffened and tried to beat back the exposed feeling. He knew he had to show Potter, but somehow it left him feeling judged. He planted his feet squarely and closed his eyes to picture a pleasant memory, filtering through several contenders and discarding them just as quickly.

_Flying through the fields at the Manor in the summer_ — _Mother surprising him with his favourite sweets_ — _Sitting with Father and being allowed to have a taste of expensive brandy._

He finally found one that made him feel warm and happy and let it spread through his mind to the tips of his fingers, enjoying the way his magic simmered beneath his skin, ready to be unleashed. Draco took a breath to centre himself and cast.

“ _Expecto Patronum_.”

He could feel it pouring from his core, down his arm, and out through the end of his wand in a rush. He could feel that his magic wanted to obey his call. A spark of white-blue light erupted from the point of his wand and, for a moment, Draco thought he’d got it. His face fell when it sputtered out after a few seconds of coiling in the air. Draco sniffed primly and arranged his face into a neutral mask so Potter wouldn’t see how this failure was affecting him.

Potter said nothing. Draco slid his eyes to him and saw that he was standing with his arms crossed, head cocked to the side. He pursed his lips to one side in thought.

“Alright, that was good,” Potter said. His shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “When you cast, can you describe how it feels?”

Draco chewed on the inside of his cheek and spoke haltingly. “It…I can feel that my magic wants to do it. It’s at the ready when I think of my memory. Only, when I cast it’s like…it runs out too quickly?” Draco pulled a face, hating to show his lack of confidence in himself to Potter. It felt wrong, wrong, _wrong_. “Like…Like I’ve poured water from a glass and it goes straight down a pipe.”

Potter nodded slowly, his eyes staring, unfocused, into the middle-distance. “Is your memory the right one?”

“How should _I_ know? You’re meant to be the bloody teacher here.” Draco quashed down on the sour flare of emotion at Potter’s arrogance. He knew if he lashed out that Potter could just as easily refuse to help him outside of D.A. meetings—or even bar Draco from his club. He had to control his irritated temper that wanted to boil over. “Just help me understand what I’m not doing right.”

“Well, if you don’t tell me the memory, then I won’t be able to,” Potter said, sighing. “Just—okay, here. Watch.” Potter held up his wand and his stag burst forth, as easily as a sailor to a siren’s call. Potter looked effortless when he cast the charm and it made Draco want to scream in frustration. Potter turned to him and pointed. “When I was first learning this, I thought of the few nice memories I had. Thinking of the first time I flew on a broom got me close, but Lupin told me it wasn’t nearly enough to really achieve the kind of absolute joy that makes up the Patronus.”

Despite needing to learn these things from Potter, Draco shied away in the face of his experience. He crossed his arms over his chest to close himself off from Potter, trying to cover up his inadequacies without resorting to pummeling Potter’s stupid face in. Draco looked at him and saw how bright his green eyes were while talking about the magic theory, standing out starkly against his bronze skin. Draco bit down on the inside of his lip.

“You have to think of something that’s the happiest memory you have, otherwise your Patronus won’t really work,” Potter explained.

Draco hated the certainty in his voice. He bristled and lost control over his temper. “I’m _trying_ to do that! We can’t all have perfect lives full of happy memories to pick and choose from. Some of us have _seen_ things we can’t ever unsee.”

Potter reeled, taking a step back. After a moment his eyes narrowed and he stepped into Draco’s space. “Are you fucking kidding me, Malfoy? You think I’ve had a perfect life? I don’t have to stay here and take this, you can listen to my advice, or I can go—it’s up to you.”

Draco jutted his chin out mutinously. “No, you have to help me!”

“Not if you’re going to be an arse about it when you don’t listen and can’t get it right!” Potter shouted. “Merlin, you’re such a stubborn, spoiled brat. Why do you even come to the D.A. meetings?”

Draco panicked, worried that his fear was coming true and Potter was going to kick him out of attending the D.A. practices.

“What’s to keep me from walking away from this and telling Umbridge what you’re up to? I bet she’ll love to hear that you call yourselves _Dumbledore’s Army_ ,” Draco said snidely instead of answering Potter, his heart thumping unpleasantly fast in his chest. He could feel his pulse thrumming in his neck.

Potter crossed his arms, glowering at him. “Go on, then. Run to Umbridge, Malfoy. Let her know all about how you’ve been a part of it with us.” He jabbed a finger into Draco’s chest threateningly, his voice dropping lower and dripping with hatred. “Or better yet, go and tell your father what you’re doing hanging around with _Dumbledore’s Army_ , learning how to defend yourself against Voldemort and his Death Eaters—need I remind you that _includes_ your father?”

Draco flinched involuntarily and took a step back. “I—”

Potter didn’t give him a chance to say anything, advancing on him once more. “I don’t even know why I let you stay in the first place. Your sob story might have fooled me at the start, but I’ve been wondering this whole time if you’re just a little junior Death Eater who’s been spying on us.”

“No!” Draco yelled. “No, that’s not—I haven’t told anyone except for Pansy. I—” Draco cut himself off and swallowed past the sudden dryness in his throat. He glared at Potter challengingly and curled his hands into fists. “He was there…at my house this summer.”

Potter stared back at him looking unconvinced. Draco continued, dropping his voice lower with discomfort.

“I shouldn’t have been listening at the door, but…and then, he knew I was there because his pet snake speaks to him in Parseltongue. He called me into their meeting,” Draco said. Potter’s jaw was clenched, but the fury was draining from his expression when Draco mentioned Nagini. “It was the most terrifying night of my life. He humiliated my father in front of them. He held my arm and talked about how I might join his ranks one day.”

Draco shuddered at the memory, digging his nails into his palm until he was certain there would be crescent shaped indentations left when he relaxed his hands. Potter stood stiffly and reached out, hesitating and letting his hand hover awkwardly in the space above Draco’s shoulder. Draco thought he might be grappling with trying to comfort Draco.

“When I go to cast my Patronus, I keep thinking of the Dark Lord’s face,” Draco admitted. “I can’t focus on my pleasant memories.”

Potter’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He cleared it and finally let his hand fall on Draco’s shoulder.

“We’ll sort you out,” Potter said stiltedly. “This is…this is good progress.”

“I still didn’t cast the charm correctly,” Draco pointed out sullenly. He felt so tired all at once after he finally told someone about his encounter during the summer, more than he’d been able to tell Pansy.

“Let’s try again,” Potter said. “Try a different memory.”

Draco sighed and held his arm up. They practiced for another twenty minutes before calling it a night and making arrangements for further private training sessions that continued through December.

*******

After his uncomfortable admission to Potter, their private meetings began to go smoother. Surprisingly, they even managed to be civil with one another rather than trading snide barbs.

Over the winter holiday, Draco spent his free moments—between sneaking spiked eggnog and opening the mountain of gifts from his parents and distant relatives—to practice while locked away in his room. Part of him worried that the Dark Lord would show up at the Manor, and Draco threw himself into trying out his Patronus.

He was smug after returning from winter break because his one on one time with Potter was also helping him improve at the regular D.A. meetups. The spellwork was starting to come to him easier, flowing more naturally with his magic technique. It filled Draco with a superior pride as his skills flourished.

“Nice work, Malfoy,” Potter praised when he walked by Draco in one meeting. He’d bested Corner and Goldstein in a two-on-one duel, catching one of them in a Body-Bind and the other with a Stupefy to his chest. Draco nodded to Potter and twirled his wand between his fingertips.

He still hadn’t managed a fully corporeal Patronus, but he was making progress. He’d begun to simmer with curiosity over what form it would take. When Longbottom finally succeeded in conjuring his own corporeal Patronus just before the hols, everyone had been impressed with the bobcat that prowled around his feet. Draco envied the elated joy on Longbottom’s face and the way the whole room cheered for him. Potter had been beaming with joy that day.

His private sessions with Potter continued into February, and each time Draco felt he was getting closer. Potter had explained what worked for him, stumbling over his words and fidgeting with his hands. Draco tried different memories every time, and when he was able to cast a cloud of protective magic he whooped and grabbed Potter’s wrist in his excitement. He was surprised that Potter’s skin felt so warm beneath his touch, and both of them froze, staring wide-eyed at one another.

One night, Draco fell abruptly into a dream after spending his last waking thoughts thinking about the session they’d had.

At first, he thought it was real—the room seemed so vivid and when Potter appeared in the same way the room provided what was needed, Draco didn’t question it. Potter looked softer than he normally did and, with a jolt, Draco realised it was because Potter was smiling at him in the same way he smiled at his friends, with tender fondness.

“You’ve got to keep practicing, Draco,” Potter said, walking up to him. His hands cupped Draco’s shoulders and slowly spun Draco to face the other direction. Potter’s breath fanned over Draco’s ear when he spoke. “Try again.”

He didn’t remove his hands from Draco’s shoulders when he raised his wand to cast. Draco felt like the warmth of his palms was burning holes through his shirt and he had the inexplicable urge to lean back against Potter. Just to see if the rest of him was as warm as his hands.

Potter squeezed Draco’s shoulders and Draco watched a flash of magic shoot out of his wand. He didn’t remember saying the incantation and wondered if he’d done a non-verbal one, distractedly impressed with himself. The cloud of magic hovered around them, creating a fog that felt both like icy-cool relief and intense heat.

Potter murmured something to him, but Draco didn’t hear it. He shivered when Potter adjusted his grip on his wand, fingers brushing against his wrist.

“Again,” Potter said, and this time his voice sounded in Draco’s other ear. He stepped closer and settled one hand on Draco’s hip.

Draco licked his lips and watched his arm make the correct motion with a detached sense of reality, almost as if he were watching from outside his own body while simultaneously being trapped in it.

This time, Draco’s cloud of Patronus magic began to take shape and his heart jumped into his throat. He didn’t see what animal it was before he was spinning with a disjointed sense of time.

And then he was snogging Potter.

Draco gasped against Potter’s lips, hands finding a place on Potter’s arms. He squeezed too tightly, feeling a rush of several emotions at once, but Potter just kissed him back, his hands running up and down Draco’s back. Draco pressed closer, melding his body to Potter’s, and his hips began to rock of their own accord. He could feel the hard ridge of Potter’s arousal through his trousers and bucked against him. Potter made a rough sound against Draco's mouth and somehow they were pressed against the wall instead of standing in the middle of the room.

Draco couldn’t believe he was kissing Potter, but he ignored the truth of it in favour of grinding against him with abandon, chasing the sensations rocketing through him. Potter tipped his head back and Draco darted in to lick a stripe up his neck, grinning against Potter’s heated skin when he made another wrecked sound. Draco was getting close, the pleasure building in his groin while they rubbed against one another.

“Draco,” Potter mumbled, bringing their lips together once more.

Draco was just cresting his peak when he woke with a gasp, jolting in bed with the sensation that he’d been falling. His heart was racing and he felt disoriented. He was panting and damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. Draco ran a hand through his fringe, pushing it back as he stared wild-eyed at his bed hangings.

He shifted and grimaced with a low sound in the back of his throat, feeling the humiliating mess in his pants.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. He fumbled for his wand, trying to keep his movements to a minimum to avoid the uncomfortably sticky sensation in his pants.

Draco spelled away the messy evidence of his dream. He dropped his wand to his pillow and scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes and making an effort to calm his galloping heart.

He’d had dreams like that one before; it was nothing completely new. It had only ever been faceless bodies—never someone he knew directly, never _Potter_.

Draco swallowed thickly and tried to push the humiliating dream from his mind. It was only his body overreacting to his recent proximity to Potter, nothing more. Even Draco could admit that Potter was passably attractive, with his bright green eyes and his darker skin.

He rolled over to go back to sleep, squeezing his eyes tightly to close out the world and hide from things he didn’t want to face.

*******

February bled into March, and as the winter began to thaw into the first inklings of spring, Draco found himself confiding in Potter about something he never pictured would be a subject they discussed: his father. They usually skirted around the other Death Eaters and Potter’s experiences, but Draco felt compelled, for some reason, to toss Potter a bone and share his troubles with his father.

Despite his decision to stay far away from anything to do with the Dark Lord, Draco still struggled with conflicting emotions when it came to his father and obeying his wishes.

He had received another ominous letter that morning at breakfast. Father spoke of his expectations coming to fruition and plans going accordingly. When Draco read it, his mind flashed to the Death Eater meeting he’d listened in on and he vaguely remembered talk of planning something at the Ministry. There had been a major breakout of former convicted Death Eaters from Azkaban in January that Draco suppressed in the back of his mind when it happened, refusing to face the reminder of the Dark Lord’s return. He didn’t know what to think; he only knew that he wanted nothing to do with it all.

He didn’t understand why his father pledged loyalty to someone who could kill other pure-bloods with such ease; it went against everything Father had taught him.

Potter had suggested warming up his magic with a duel before going straight into working on Patronuses. Draco found himself distracted during a session with Potter, failing to disarm him in their practice duel.

“If you don’t pay attention in a duel, it could cost you your life, you know,” Potter said pointedly. “Not everything is civilized in the real world.”

Draco blinked back into focus from his swirling thoughts, sighing. “I—yes, I’m aware of that. I was…preoccupied.”

“I can see that,” Potter said. “What’s on your mind?”

Potter put his wand away and flopped down onto the plush armchair the room provided for him in Draco’s sitting area. He held a hand out invitingly for Draco to join him. Draco walked over and sat on the sofa woodenly, adjusting himself twice to find a comfortable position. Potter waited patiently, watching him.

After letting the quiet stretch between them, Draco sighed and slumped back against the sofa. “I just—” He broke off to gesture vaguely. He wasn’t sure he was quite ready to talk to Potter, of all people, about his predicament. “I still think pure-bloods are better than Mud—than Muggle-borns and half-bloods.”

He glanced over at Potter and frowned when he saw his jaw working, clearly burning with the desire to spout off some noble drivel about _equality_ in the wizarding world. Draco blew out another ragged breath and held a hand up to preemptively stem the flow of Potter’s imminent righteous diatribe.

“That’s not—Merlin, I can’t even…” Draco bit down on his lip and made a small, frustrated sound and started over, trying to collect his thoughts and present them in a way that wouldn’t result in Potter punching him. “Look, I’m not…on your side, or anything.” He slanted a determined look toward Potter, who returned it with intensity. “But I don’t want anything to do with the Dark Lord. It’s hard, though, because I’m ingrained with an urge to do as my father bids me to. He has certain…expectations for me.”

“Your father is an arsehole; you don’t have to listen to a word he says,” Potter said vehemently, cutting in at last. “And if you don’t take Voldemort’s side, then you _are_ on ours. Why do you even want to live up to his expectations if it’s the wrong choice?”

“I…it’s difficult to articulate,” Draco said. “He’s my father; I was raised to uphold the family name in the way that he deems fit for his heir.”

Potter slammed a fist down on the arm of his chair, the _thunk_ muted against the plush cushion. “ _Why_? That’s a steaming load of Hippogriff shit, if you ask me.”

“Well, I didn’t really ask you, did I,” Draco snapped, growing weary. “It’s just not done, alright?”

“Bollocks. You’re the only one in charge of your own actions. If you don’t want to do something, then don’t,” Potter countered unsympathetically. He continued, earnestly, “Look, Dumbledore can help you—protect you, if you need, and—”

Draco groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the steady throb of a headache blooming behind his eyes. Potter continued his noble rant, much to Draco’s displeasure.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just see what your dad’s doing,” Potter said. “Do you know he’s tried to kill me? At _least_ twice now, if my count is correct. He was there, in the graveyard when Voldemort returned. You already know he’s working directly with him.”

Draco couldn’t stand to listen to anymore of the truth he already knew. He shot forward in his seat and sneered: “You just don’t get it, Potter. You never _will_ , because your parents died.”

Potter recoiled as if Draco had struck him.

As soon as the vicious words left him, Draco regretted them. He didn’t feel sorry for Potter, necessarily, but he did know that what he said would cut Potter to the quick, like a poisonous knife stabbed into his side.

Potter stood in an eruptive motion, bursting from his chair. His face was thunderous, dark with anger; his hands shook as they flexed repeatedly. Potter looked at him, and then stormed off before Draco had a chance to take all of it back.

Draco closed his eyes, focusing on the painful twinge of pain behind his eyes and let his head drop back to the sofa in defeat.

*******

In the days that followed Potter wouldn’t meet his eyes in the halls or during lessons. Draco worried that Potter wouldn’t meet up with him after his unintentional outburst. He finally swallowed his pride and decided to find him and apologise for what he said, before Potter came to the conclusion he wasn’t worth helping any longer. He needed Potter’s help more than he needed his pride to be intact.

Draco found Potter by the broom shed near the Quidditch pitch and steeled himself, glancing around to check that no one would overhear as he walked up to Potter.

“Hey,” Draco said.

Potter turned at the sound of his voice and frowned. “Hullo.”

Well, bugger. Potter wasn’t going to make this easy for him, was he?

Draco tried again. “I wasn’t quite sure if you were going to stop our…arrangement.”

Draco darted his eyes around again, and it occurred to him belatedly—and rather absurdly—that this could almost appear as a lover’s tiff being made up. He sucked in a breath and hacked a cough, choking on his own saliva. Potter eyed him warily, his jaw clenching.

He ignored Draco’s presence for a moment, closing the door to the broom shed and leaning back against the ramshackle building. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I considered leaving off. It’s not like I owe you or anything, and you’ve been nothing but a right prat the whole time,” Potter said.

“You considered…? So that implies you won’t be?” Draco focused on that, taking it as a good sign that Potter wasn’t completely cross with him. He took a fortifying breath and came out with it before he lost his resolve: “I’m sorry. For…saying that. About your…you know.”

Potter pressed his lips into a thin line.

Draco rushed to say more to endear himself to Potter. “It’s just, I would hate for you to remain angry with me. Over something silly like that. You see, I’ve come to consider us to be friends.”

“Friends,” Potter repeated, sounding dubious.

Draco ignored the old pang from when he first offered his friendship to Potter, shoving it aside in his mind and keeping his attention on the moment at hand. It felt delicate, like if he got it wrong that he wouldn’t get another chance.

“I’d like us to be,” Draco admitted. “If you’ll allow that.”

“You want me to be my friend, but you still call Hermione and Ron names?” Potter countered. “Let’s be straight, Malfoy. The only real reason you’re here to apologise is because you’re worried I’m not going to keep working with you on your Patronus. I’m just a means to an end for you.”

Draco took a step closer. “Maybe if I was the same as I was at the start of the year! I’m different now.”

“Malfoy, you _just_ told me that you still think you’re better than everyone else. You haven’t changed at all,” Potter said, sounding tired. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his face.

“Maybe I’m changing slowly,” Draco argued. “Maybe…maybe I want to be different, if it means we could really be friends.”

Potter put his glasses back on and looked at Draco inquisitively, tilting his head. “If we’re going to be friends, you have to be civil to Ron and Hermione.”

Draco pulled a face in distaste.

“I’m serious, Malfoy. I’m not going to stand for you being a spoiled, stuck-up arsehole anymore.”

“Fine,” Draco agreed. “Alright, I’ll stop calling Granger a Mud—” Draco cut himself off when Potter gave him a severe look. “I won’t call her names anymore. And I’ll try to leave off Weasley, but honestly, Potter, you can’t expect much there. Our families have been feuding for a long time.”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it all the time, though,” Potter pointed out. “I won’t believe your apology until you agree to my terms.”

“Ugh, you’re so bloody _noble_ , aren’t you? Merlin, I bet you think you’re saving me, or whatever,” Draco said snottily.

Potter rolled his eyes and pinned Draco with an expectant look.

“Well?”

Draco sighed, exasperated, and held his hands out, palms up. “Okay, you win! I will do my sporting best to not call your permanent fixtures anything derogatory.”

Potter nodded, seemingly appeased.

“Unless Weasley asks for it. I can’t be held accountable for retaliating or for not taking it lying down if he’s going to start something,” Draco added hastily.

Potter frowned and Draco stared him down. “Fine,” Potter conceded. “That’s...the best I can hope for, I suppose.”

A flutter of excitement whispered through Draco. He clamped down on it before it could get out of hand. “So…does that make us friends?”

Potter considered Draco for another silent minute. “Yes,” he said finally. “I accept your apology and I guess we can be friends.”

The excited flutter grew to a warm hum. Draco tried to quash it down, but it only grew and grew, filling him up with a glowing feeling. Draco swallowed and held out his hand impulsively, meeting Potter’s green eyes with unwavering resolve. Potter looked down at his hand, blinked, and slowly slid his eyes back up to meet Draco’s once more, looking at him through his lashes.

Potter took Draco’s hand and shook it.

Draco stared down at their clasped hands, Potter’s darker skin contrasting against Draco’s pale skin. Potter’s hand was softer than he expected, warm and solid against his own palm. He could feel the broom calluses from flying where Potter’s thumb curled around the back of his hand.

A minute later—or years, Draco wasn’t really sure—Potter pulled back and gave him a tentative smile.

“I’ve got to go. See you on Thursday, though?” Potter waved at him as he walked off.

The warmth was still wrapped around him, and Draco suddenly had an urge he couldn’t ignore. He glanced back up at the castle, saw Potter’s retreating form, and turned to head to the Great Lake. He hurried over the rough grounds, stumbling once on a large rock, unable to maintain the poise he usually held himself with.

By the time he reached the lakeshore, he was almost breathless. His chest rose and fell with each step and for some inexplicable reason, Draco knew what would happen when he drew his wand with trembling fingers, too jittery to properly hold still.

Draco closed his eyes and pictured Potter’s voice in his head, reminding him to keep his grip relaxed. He let the memories filter freely through is mind, spilling to the forefront and filling him with pleasant feelings. At first, it was images of his parents doting on him and praising him, then the exhilarating freedom of flying, then shaking Potter’s hand just now and the knowledge that he’d finally gained Potter’s friendship.

The memory he finally landed on was another recent one: Potter smiling at him from one of the D.A. meetings. Something clicked in Draco, and he knew with certainty then.

Draco took another breath and moved his arm in the familiar pattern. “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

Silvery magic burst from his wand, swirling around on the ground for a few seconds before a shape finally took form and his true Patronus revealed itself.

Draco laughed, a brief huff of breath in the late afternoon sunlight. His Patronus looked up at him. It was a regal looking fox, quick and clever. It had a bushy tail that curled around its body.

“Hello,” Draco said after a few minutes, unable to contain a smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

The fox twitched its nose at him, stalking closer and circling him. It put an ethereal paw on the toe of Draco’s shoe. Draco distractedly wondered if he could pet his Patronus while his achievement filled him with elation.

He couldn’t believe he’d finally cast the Patronus Charm successfully. It had worked, at long last. He finally found a set of memories that brought him enough happiness to chase away the darkness clouding his thoughts.

*******

“Would you mind staying for a moment, Mr Malfoy?” Umbridge’s grating voice stopped him from packing up his things at the end of class. “I have an opportunity for extra credit I think you’ll be interested in.”

Her beady eyes gleamed in a way that made Draco’s stomach turn. He involuntarily threw a glance at Potter and his friends as they finished gathering their things and began to leave. Potter caught his eye and quirked a bushy brow before he was distracted by Weasley slinging an arm around his neck and gesturing enthusiastically.

“Of course,” Draco said, setting aside his satchel and folding his hands behind him. It was a habit to fall into the stance that reminded him most of his father when he felt uncomfortable.

Umbridge smiled sweetly and made a cooing sound at him while she came around her desk. “I think you would make an excellent head to a new group the Ministry has given me approval to create. It works similarly to your Prefect duties, but would allow you even more…power over your fellow student body.”

Draco kept his face impassive, listening with mild interest. He liked power.

“The Inquisitorial Squad will report directly to me, rather than your Head of House,” Umbridge explained in a grating, girlish voice. “I’ve been hand selecting the members myself, so the group will be made up of the cream of the crop.”

“And what will this group do that isn’t already covered by my Prefect status? I have a very full workload as it is, Professor,” Draco said, allowing a note of interest to creep into his voice.

“Of course, dear, you work so very hard.” Umbridge brought a chubby hand up and caressed Draco’s cheek lovingly.

Draco held very still, trying not to flinch away from her when all he wanted to do was shove her away. He cleared his throat and made a show of adjusting his robes, smoothing down his school tie and picking invisible lint from his sleeve to tactfully brush her intrusive touch away from him.

“I selected you to be the head of the Inquisitorial Squad because I know you will report anyone breaking the rules, especially against the decrees the Ministry has instated—because you support the work the Ministry does, just as your father must have taught you,” Umbridge said. “You’re such a model student, Mr Malfoy.”

“Thank you,” Draco said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline this generous offer, Professor Umbridge. You see, as I said, I need to focus on my studies. If I’m to follow in my father’s footsteps and one day work at the Ministry of Magic, then I’ll need to do well on my O.W.L.s”

Umbridge pouted, her plump, pink lips pulled into an unattractive moue of displeasure. She made a pitiful sound and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing her nails into it with a surprisingly strong grip.

“How disappointing, dear boy,” Umbridge said. “No matter, I will just have to inform my second choice of his good fortune. Have a good day.”

Draco nodded stiffly and quickly gathered his things to leave and get as far away from the DADA professor as he could. His skin was crawling and the only thing he could think to do was find Potter and tell him about what happened. This new group of Umbridge’s couldn’t bode well for the D.A..

Draco felt distracted as he went through the rest of his lessons, just going through the motions. He wandered into the common room in the afternoon and walked straight into Nott.

“Sorry,” Draco said, sidestepping him.

“Sorry? Not: ‘watch where you're going’?” Nott smirked at Draco.

He shot Nott a narrow-eyed look. Nott had been acting out toward Draco more and more over the course of the year, and his heavy-handed attempts to commandeer his place at the top of the Slytherin social hierarchy had not gone unnoticed by Draco. He just couldn’t bring himself to really care if Nott wanted what Draco had, not when he hadn’t cared about it himself in the last few months.

“Clearly neither of us were, so I don’t see why that matters,” Draco said, his voice bored. “Move; I’m going to put my bag in the dorm room.”

Nott didn’t move a muscle, his smirk turning into a mean curl of his lips. He pointed down to a shining pin on the lapel of his school robe and puffed up proudly. “Let me tell you the good news, first! Umbridge has named me as the head of her Inquisitorial Squad.”

Draco blinked at him slowly, unimpressed.

Nott’s cruel smile grew into a grin. “I heard she offered it to you, but you passed up on the opportunity for more power over the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws. Plus, we get to openly defy Dumbledore and give our support to the Ministry. What’s not to be interested in there?”

“Bully for you,” Draco said. “I told her it was because I’d rather study for my exams, and I’m already a Prefect.”

“Wow,” Nott said, his brows rising on his forehead. “Crabbe! Goyle! Quick, come take my pulse. I think I might’ve died, because Malfoy over here just said he didn’t want any more power and influence than he already had.”

Draco watched them flank Nott and realised he had seen less and less of them since the spring term began. Draco had brushed them off so many times that they eventually faded into background static to him; he didn’t think they would latch onto the next available influencer, but it appeared they did exactly that. Each of them had a matching pin that signified them as part of the same set along with Nott.

“Look at you, part of a club,” Draco said. He shrugged and foisted his bag into Goyle’s hands. “Take this to my trunk, will you?”

Goyle blinked dopily at him before sliding his eyes to Nott, as if he were checking with him before listening to Draco. So that was how it was going to be, then? Fine. Draco turned his nose up at the three of them and glared at Goyle until he mumbled something incomprehensible and shuffled away with Draco’s bag. Draco shot a satisfied smirk at Nott, challenging him to call Goyle back. Perhaps this would help Nott learn: displays of power were much better executed when they were _subtle_.

“Well, I’ve got Quidditch practice to get ready for, so I’ll be off. I’m sure your dad will be so pleased with your extra credit endeavors, Nott,” Draco said as he ambled from the common room, smug at having the final word.

Later, Nott cornered him upon his return from the Slytherin team practice, blocking the door to the shower when Draco came into the dorm to put away his kit. Draco narrowed his eyes in annoyance and tried to step around Nott, but he mirrored Draco’s movements and kept him trapped in the room.

There was a rather calculating look in his eyes that Draco recognised; one he used to use all the time to get what he wanted, or to intimidate someone.

Draco raised his chin a fraction, refusing to give into Nott’s poor imitation of Draco’s own tactics.

“If there’s something you want, you should speak up, Nott,” Draco said.

“I’d offer the same advice to you, but you’ve been rather obvious about your own wants lately, haven’t you?” Nott countered. “Everyone knows about how you’ve been…different.”

“Have I?” Draco asked airily. He pretended to examine his nails, feigning his utmost disinterest in whatever Nott had to say. “I’d say I’m about the same. Perhaps I’ve just matured faster than the rest of you sad, soggy Quidditch socks.”

Nott hummed and stepped closer, trying to stand taller over Draco. He wanted to roll his eyes at how obvious Nott was being; Nott had no finesse at all compared to Draco.

“Crabbe and Goyle were so lost without your…guidance and command, Draco,” Nott said. “I took them under my wing, it was all I could do to ease their confusion.”

“They are quite pitiful without a strong hand,” Draco agreed. He sat on his bed, completely unfazed by Nott, and resigned himself to listening to whatever he wanted to gloat about. “Is that what this is all about? You want to rub it in my face that you’ve stolen my faithful followers from me?”

“Well, I can certainly see why you kept them around for so long. They make excellent bodyguards. No one dares to cross me now,” Nott mused, coming to sit close to Draco on his bed without being invited.

Draco shot him a nasty look.

“You know, I was talking with my dad over the break between terms, and he was really interested to hear that you seemed to have a falling out with Crabbe and Goyle, according to their fathers,” Nott continued. He looked too eager and Draco took more mental marks away for his inability to conceal any of his emotions. “He told me he’d seen you over the summer and that you seemed to have your head on straight then.”

That gave Draco pause. He absorbed himself in removing the guards buckled around his forearms and deigned not to answer Nott’s thinly veiled accusation. Nott let a few beats pass before he spoke again.

“I suggested to him that maybe you weren’t as inclined to obey your father’s wishes as you appear to be,” Nott said. “Especially since you seem to have flipped a personality switch somewhere along the way.”

“Why, because I’ve grown bored of bullying students for the sweets their mummies send them?” Draco scoffed and rolled his eyes, tossing his guards to the end of his bed. “I just found that to be a bit _juvenile_ , now that I’m growing into a man. If you’re so inclined to stick your nose in my business, I’ll have you know that I’ve been going to see Professor Snape to discuss options for a career path.”

Draco was satisfied with his lie when Nott seemed to hesitate. Only, Nott’s mouth twisted into a wicked smile a few seconds later.

“How interesting. Last I checked, the seventh floor was nowhere near Professor Snape’s office in the dungeons,” Nott informed him.

Draco froze, unable to hide his surprise for a moment before he rearranged his face into a neutral mask.

“You’re there so often that one has to wonder what you could possibly be up to, especially when you won’t tell any of your friends about it,” Nott added. “We’re only looking out for you. Slytherins are like family, after all.”

Fuck. Draco needed to do better to cover up his connection to the D.A. and Potter. He’d grown so lax about it since the beginning. He needed to be more careful, especially now that Nott was going to be leading the Inquisitorial Squad after the biggest offenders of Umbridge’s rules.

*******

The night the D.A. was caught, no one saw it coming.

Everything seemed so normal and everyone was in relatively high spirits. Some new members, like Seamus Finnigan, were attending for the first time. Draco happened to be the only Slytherin member present; Pansy decided to skip it. Potter had them practicing Patronuses and reiterating once more that calling on a Patronus in a brightly lit classroom setting was completely different from doing it under pressure in a dangerous situation.

Draco rolled his eyes and jibed at Potter lightly, “Do tell us more, you great hero. Regale us with the tales of your battles.”

Potter smirked at him and strolled over, reaching out to straighten Draco’s stance by nudging his shoulder.

“I did get attacked with my cousin in the Muggle world over the summer; nearly got expelled before the term even began and had to go before the Wizengamot for using my Patronus to save our lives,” Potter said.

When the door opened and closed, the cheerful chatter filling the room died off, slowly spreading into silence from the people closest to the door until the whole room was quiet. Potter turned away from Draco to look down.

“Dobby?” Potter seemed to know the house-elf tugging at his jeans.

Dobby was in a state, wringing his hands and darting his overly wide eyes around the room.

Draco blinked several times, realising that he recognised the elf. It was his father’s old house-elf, the one he complained about losing thanks to Potter at the end of second year. Before Draco could interrupt to ask why Dobby was at Hogwarts, Dobby frantically gripped Potter’s trouser leg.

“Dobby has come to warn Harry Potter,” Dobby said in a high-pitched, worried voice. “The house-elves have been forbidden to say, but…”

Dobby broke off and ran himself straight into the wall, making Granger and a handful of the other girls let out little shouts of fear. Potter rushed forward to pull Dobby away from banging his forehead against the wall, holding onto his thin arm.

“That’s enough now, Dobby,” Potter said gently. A fission of unease was threading its way throughout the room, each of the members glancing at each other with mixed confusion and trepidation. “You’ve come here to warn me, you said.”

“Harry Potter,” Dobby said, soft and reverent, even in the face of his clear discomfort at battling with orders to talk to Potter, “she…she…she _knows_.”

Draco’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach, his hands tingling with a cold feeling. Potter glanced around, his eyes catching Draco’s for a beat. Draco saw it clearly in his eyes—Potter knew as well as he did that there was only one person that could possibly be ‘ _she_ ’.

Potter turned back to Dobby, his voice quiet and horrified when he asked, “Umbridge?”

Dobby nodded and made a strangled sound, attempting to knock his head against Potter’s knees while the room looked on. Potter struggled to hold him and asked Dobby if Umbridge was coming for them. When the house-elf nodded, his bat-like ears flapping with the motion, Potter stood and surveyed the room.

“What are you all waiting around for?! RUN!” he bellowed.

Draco jumped at the volume of his voice and the entire room moved at once, everyone stampeding to the door in a flurry of motion. Draco’s feet began to move before he’d made the conscious decision to join everyone, his fight or flight instincts kicking in, and when he glanced over his shoulder he saw that Potter was struggling to keep Dobby from punishing himself once more. Granger’s voice called out from somewhere in the middle of the group, and Potter finally moved, scooping the house-elf into his arms as he sprinted after them.

They ran en masse down the corridor. Draco followed Potter when he surpassed him, the elf no longer in his arms. Draco’s long legs carried him while his adrenaline rocketed through him. He could see the wild bounce of Granger’s dark cloud of wavy hair ahead of him as she took a turn from the main corridor.

Potter went down in his peripheral vision, stumbling and collapsing against the floor with a heavy _thump_.

“Trip Jinx, Potter,” Nott’s voice crowed with success. “Professor Umbridge, I’ve caught one of them!”

Draco chanced a glance over his shoulder to see Nott standing above Potter near a niche with a vase in it and Umbridge hurrying over to him. His breath was knocked from him as a heavy weight crashed into him, sending him to the floor with a painful jolt as his captor’s body came down on top of his.

Draco groaned when the arsehole slumped to the side and called out, “Got another.”

Draco slowly turned his head and attempted to get his feet under him and scowled at Goyle. “You will pay for that, you utterly dimwitted gargoyle. Why the fuck would you _jump_ on me?”

“Had t’catch you somehow,” Goyle said blandly, standing and hauling Draco to his feet. He brushed himself off as Goyle dragged him back down the hall to where Potter stood.

“Oh hello, Malfoy, fancy seeing you here on the seventh floor,” Nott said brightly, nearly childlike in his joy.

Draco curled his lip in disgust and brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen out of place when Goyle tackled him to the ground. Draco looked over Nott’s shoulder and saw the Inquisitorial Squad coming out of the Room of Requirement with a familiar parchment in hand.

“Go on,” Umbridge said to Montague and Warrington. “See if you are able to catch any others—check the library and other gathering areas; if anyone is out of breath take them.”

Umbridge was practically vibrating with success, her voice dangerous as she addressed Potter. When her eyes slid to Draco, she _tsked_ disapprovingly.

“I expected better of Lucius Malfoy’s son,” she said, pouting at him.

Nott snickered at her side.

“Well, both of you are coming with me to the Headmaster’s office,” she said. “Mr Nott, come along in case I need you to watch them.”

Nott followed dutifully, taking every opportunity to jab his wand point into Draco and Potter’s backs to keep them moving. Draco ground his teeth together, filing away every one of Nott’s infractions against him to destroy Nott with when no one was around to protect him.

Potter was stoic and silent at his side, though Draco could see a muscle jumping in his jaw when he glanced at him.

Underneath his hatred of Nott in that moment, Draco was panicking because he was caught with Potter. He was worried it was going to make it back to his father—or _worse_ , the Dark Lord—that a secretive group of students had been training themselves specifically against the threat looming on the horizon—the threat his father was a part of.

When they reached the stone gargoyle that protected the stairs to the Headmaster’s office, Umbridge left them with Nott.

“Wait here while I speak with the Minister; I’ve already alerted him and he should have arrived by now,” Umbridge said.

A spike of dread shot through him at the mention of the Minister for Magic. Fudge knew his father well.

Nott picked up on Draco’s unease and gleefully descended on him as soon as Umbridge was out of sight.

“You thought you had everyone fooled, didn’t you?” Nott asked, putting on a mask of false sympathy. “Clever Draco Malfoy, a slippery snake if there ever was one, caught out with _Potter_. How dismaying for you.”

“Shut up, Nott,” Potter muttered. Nott ignored him and got in Draco’s face.

“I just can’t wait until I have the chance to write my father and tell him of my success in weeding out a secret illicit club as part of my prestigious duty as the Inquisitorial Squad leader. He’ll be so impressed with my initiative that he’ll surely brag about my potential to his special _friends_ ,” Nott said.

Draco set his face into a frosty mask of indifference. He wouldn’t give Nott the satisfaction of seeing the way he affected him, the way he was picking at Draco’s unsettled nerves like a scab.

Draco felt Potter put a hand on his arm, and it helped him calm some of the panicked rage simmering beneath the surface, anchoring him to bring him back from the brink he was spiraling into.

Before Nott had the opportunity to continue his verbal spewing, Umbridge returned, her beady eyes focused on Potter.

She wrapped her pudgy hand around his sleeve and tugged him forward, unconcerned with Draco.

“Mr Malfoy, your behaviour tonight was unfortunate, but I think ten points from Slytherin ought to do it to remind you not to run in the halls. It’s most unbecoming of the Slytherin Prefect, so please see to it that you refrain from such behaviour in the future,” Umbridge said, tossing a quick glance his way before staring at Potter like he was a bug trapped in her web. “You and Mr Nott are both free to go.”

Nott grumbled something under his breath that Draco didn’t catch before he spun on his heel and stalked away. Draco blinked, looking uncertainly at Potter, hovering in place. Umbridge caught the look.

“You shouldn’t worry, my dear. Mr Potter is going to be reprimanded for his blatant disregard for school rules,” Umbridge simpered.

Potter rolled his eyes while Umbridge wasn’t looking at him. Draco shot Potter a final unsure look before he slowly walked away, unscathed by their illegal group being found out.

Draco had no idea what would happen to Potter, or what it meant for the fate of the members written on the list of parchment Umbridge confiscated. He tried to be glad that he’d avoided being punished—apart from Umbridge docking him ten points—but he could only think of Potter and hope this was another one of those times he would miraculously squeak by untouched by a bad hand dealt by Fate.

*******

Draco let weeks pass after the D.A. was caught and disbanded. He couldn’t face Potter; he didn’t even know if they could still meet up for their private sessions.

Draco never told him that he was able to cast his Patronus, he never got the chance to before Marietta Edgecombe had snitched on them. Draco planned to save it to show off to Potter when they were alone, rather than have the whole D.A. watching him. Pansy never would have let him live it down.

Instead of tracking Potter down, Draco tried to be careful after the incident with the Inquisitorial Squad, choosing to focus on his revisions for the upcoming exams rather than give Nott more ammunition against him.

Nott never made good on his thinly veiled warnings from several weeks ago, so Draco thought it would be best to head Nott off by preemptively writing to his father. Draco hated writing it, hated sending it even worse.

He wrote lie after lie in his letter, the biggest being that he swore to his father that he only joined the D.A. to find out what they were doing so that he could use it to his advantage. It was the very thing Potter accused him of when he first showed up to join. He had to tell his father _something_ he might believe, though, so Draco squashed the urge to crumble the letter when he finished writing it.

After Draco went up to the Owlery to send his letter, his stomach in knots, he needed something to try to feel better. He had to find Potter.

Draco rubbed his thumb over the now-useless charmed Galleon that he was still carrying around and chewed on his lip while he thought. He couldn’t go to Gryffindor Tower to ask after Potter; the Gryffindors were all back to hating him, as if he was the reason the D.A. was caught. He didn’t think Potter would be in the Room, either. He was sure they were all avoiding the seventh floor for the same reason.

Draco began to wander the school grounds, seeking Potter out. Luck was on his side: he spotted Potter from afar, down by the Great Lake. From Draco’s vantage point, he was able to make out that Potter was vigorously skipping rocks across the lake’s murky depths. Draco made a beeline straight for him, striding across the grounds and eating up the vast distance between them.

When he finally reached him, Draco stood back and watched Potter meticulously select a rock from the pile beside him, square his shoulders, and pelt it at the surface of the lake. That one skipped twice before plopping heavily beneath the water.

Draco watched him throw another, and another. Potter was tense, so each time the rocks only went so far before plummeting and sinking heavily, and each one pulled Draco’s mood further down.

“You’re pitiful at that,” Draco observed.

Potter hesitated from grabbing the next stone. He didn’t turn to face him, only turned his head slightly to look at Draco in profile. He pushed his glasses up his nose and huffed, squaring his shoulders once more and flinging the small rock at the lake with a grunt. That time he made it three skips before the _plunk_ echoed.

“Aren’t you ready to go back to your life yet? You seem to have already in just about every other way,” Potter said crisply.

Draco’s brows drew together. “I wasn’t sure if we were still going to keep our arrangement to meet up, now that…”

“Yes, now that,” Potter said. He looked over his shoulder. “Hermione said you called her a Mudblood again.”

Draco’s eyes widened. _Fuck_. “I had to.”

“Are you joking?” Potter scoffed. He turned fully to face Draco and took two steps into his space, causing Draco to shuffle backward and throw his hands up defensively. Potter’s eyes were molten with anger. “How can I even believe anything you swear to? You’re just a slime, Malfoy. Always have been, always will be. Go back to be with the other worms.”

“No, Potter— _listen_ ,” Draco said. “I had to because Theo Nott was right there, and he’s pretty much the old me now. He’s got Crabbe and Goyle following him and taking his orders. His dad’s in league with mine.”

Potter shook his head and began to walk away. Draco grabbed his arm, digging his fingers into Potter’s sleeve.

“Wait! Just let me tell you and we can just go back to what it was like be—”

“Before? _Before_ , your mates came in and knew exactly how to find us?” Potter said through clenched teeth, baring them at Draco in an uncouth snarl. “Marietta might have fallen for Umbridge’s shit, but that still doesn’t mean you didn’t tip them off.”

“I didn’t, though!” Draco insisted, frustration rising. This wasn’t how he’d intended the encounter to go.

A boom of sudden thunder made both of them jump and look up at the sky. Storm clouds had rolled in while they were arguing. Draco flinched when a fat raindrop splashed onto his cheek. It started off slowly, _drip…drip…drop_ hitting the leaves and the ground and the lake, and then all at once the sky opened and poured down on the pair of them.

Potter fumbled for his wand and shot an Umbrella Charm off, covering himself. Draco huddled closer beneath the protection without being invited, feeling the dampness seeping through his clothes. A breeze sprayed rain into Draco’s face and made a shiver run down his spine. Potter gaped at him.

“Cast your own charm, Malfoy,” Potter said, irritation colouring his voice. “Fuck off.”

“No, I won’t,” Draco said stubbornly. He crossed his arms and was satisfied at the way Potter’s eyes flashed when Draco’s elbows brushed against his chest from how close they were standing together. “I’m not going to leave until you listen.”

“Christ, _fine_ , but only so that you can go away,” Potter said. There were raindrops on his round lenses.

Draco waited a beat, listening to the rushing sound of the storm lashing the grounds with heavy rainfall.

“I swear, I didn’t say anything to Nott and his damn squad,” Draco said. “I only stayed away because Nott hasn’t taken his bloody eyes off me since we were caught. I had to write to my father to tell him something, though. Otherwise, Nott might’ve taken the initiative.”

Potter rolled his eyes impatiently. “Why did you come out here?”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Draco said. “I wanted to see if we were…okay.”

“Okay? Malfoy, I’ve had to avoid my friends all week because the things they’ve been telling me from the beginning are probably true—and now I’m inclined to believe them,” Potter said, his voice rising. He shifted his wand from one hand to the other, still holding the invisible barrier above them and jabbed a finger into the centre of Draco’s chest. “It’s so convenient that you’ve spent months hanging around and pestering me for help, and now you can just write to your father and run back to hide behind his robes. You were _spying_ this whole time—just admit it.”

Draco spluttered and shoved Potter. “You fucking arse! I swore to you that I wasn’t! I just wanted to learn how to protect myself!”

“No, I’m done, Malfoy!” Potter yelled back, his shout nearly drowned out by the heavy downfall surrounding them. “I am not going to keep helping you learn how to survive against us when you become a Death Eater and end up on the other side of our wands! This is going to be a _war_ , you idiot! People have already _died_!”

All of Draco’s breath left him in a wheezing rush with the pain of Potter’s words. They _hurt_ , because Draco already confessed to Potter that he _didn’t ever want to be a Death Eater_. Potter, apparently, didn’t believe a word he had said.

Draco gaped at Potter, feeling his pulse thrumming in his ears as if he were underwater, and stumbled back a step, then another. He blinked the rain from his eyes and turned on his heel, slipping in the soggy mud. He scrambled away from Potter, thankful for the cover of rain as burning hot, bitter tears stung his eyes while they leaked down his cheeks.

He ran and ran, until his footsteps echoed off the castle walls as he rushed blindly toward the relative comfort of the dungeons, where he belonged.

*******

Draco had spent the majority of the year pushing Professor Snape’s presence at the Manor over the summer to the back of his mind, managing to go through Potions class without thinking of the way Draco’s eyes had met his.

It was something he couldn’t seem to escape when Snape opened his door and invited Draco in for his scheduled career advice meeting.

“Come in, Draco,” Snape said, turning to take a seat behind his desk.

Draco entered the office and set his satchel down beside his chair when he pulled it out to take a seat in front of Snape. He pressed his fingers together in a steeple and gazed at Draco evenly.

“So, we are here to discuss your career path,” Snape began. “Your interests in your future will determine what subjects you’ll need to do well in—not that you need to worry about that with your marks—and where you should focus your studies in the next two years leading up to your N.E.W.T. exams.”

Snape’s eyes bore into Draco, making him fight off the need to squirm; that would be unbecoming of a Malfoy heir.

“You excel in most of your classes. Tell me, is there one or two in particular that interest you?” Snape asked.

“I enjoy Potions, sir,” Draco said automatically. “I like Charms, as well. I find them both useful.”

Snape nodded and rifled through the pamphlets spread across his desk. Draco caught sight of _Majestic Moon Mapping_ , _The Artist’s Brush: Career Paths to Magical Portraiteering_ , and _Write Your Way to Success in Wizarding Journalism_. Professor Snape picked up three and handed them to Draco.

“These are the careers that deal heavily in both Potions and Charms work,” Snape explained. “You’ll see that with a focus on these you could follow an academic path, which I’m sure would please your father. You also would be able to follow a career with more practical applications of these subjects.”

Draco examined the pamphlets for Mastery and Scholars with interest. “Research, essentially, sir?”

“Among other things. Development, experimentation; the possibilities could be endless, really,” Snape said. He tilted his head slightly and watched Draco. “Are there any other interests you might have?”

“Like what?” Draco asked, skimming over a pamphlet detailing how recruitment into the Unspeakables was a prestigious, competitive career path.

“Perhaps you have an interest in where a focus on Defense Against the Dark Arts would take you,” Snape suggested in a smooth tone.

Draco blinked, belatedly realising what Snape had said. He slid his eyes up to peer at Snape through his lashes and looked back down when Snape’s face was smooth and free of suspicion. Draco reasoned with himself that he was being paranoid and imagining things.

“I imagine that there aren’t very many career options for anyone focusing their studies there. The obvious one would be an Auror, I assume,” Draco said neutrally. Snape hummed in agreement, a hint of his disapproval clear in his tone. “I would think the others, though less obvious, could be Curse Breaker, perhaps, and teaching for those that don’t enjoy potentially dangerous fieldwork and the company of other adults.”

Snape’s lips ticked into an amused smirk and he tilted his head forward. The smile faded from his face. Draco shifted in his seat and met Snape’s gaze evenly.

“My marks are impressive, as you’ve said,” Draco offered. “So, my options are plentiful. I will have to confer with Father, of course, to select one that best suits me.”

“Of course,” Snape said. “I hope you’ll be able to choose something that pleases you.”

“Pleasing my father is what makes me happy,” Draco said. “I’ll obey his wishes for me.”

“An interesting sentiment considering some of your…choices this year.” Snape’s voice was soft and silky, surely a tactic to set him at ease, but Draco sat up straighter at his words.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Draco said. “I’ve put my best effort into my course work.”

“Yes, you’ve certainly been making sure to absorb education from all available avenues,” Snape said.

Draco swallowed and slid his eyes away, staring at the tomes stacked on the bookshelves along the wall.

“No one can blame you for wanting to give yourself the best chance at learning all you can, Draco,” Snape murmured. “I surely don’t.”

Draco said nothing to that, trying to control his emotions in front of his Head of House. He hated that he was showing weakness to another Slytherin, even if it was Snape.

“Draco, I’m going to be very frank with you.” Snape sighed and dropped his hands to his desk, folding his sallow-skinned fingers together. “Honouring your father’s wishes is not always in your best interest. If you ever wish to make a decision that does not align with what he thinks you should do, I would like to make myself available to you and offer my help, should you need it. You don’t have to say anything now, but if you ever find yourself in a difficult position, I am someone that you may turn to.”

Draco snapped his head back around so quickly he heard it creak. He stared at Snape, who was looking at him with a grimace of displeasure.

“Sometimes we do things because we are told to, and sometimes we find a better way and make our own paths,” Snape said cryptically. “Make your own path, Draco. Be your own man; do not bend to the will of others—even your father’s.”

Draco was at a complete loss for words. He stood woodenly and cleared his throat. “Is that all, sir?”

Snape’s expression cleared and settled back into one of neutrality. He sighed once and gestured to the pamphlets spread on his desk.

“Yes,” Snape said. “You’ll do well in any career you choose. Do take more pamphlets, if you’re so inclined. And when you get back to the dormitory send Miss Parkinson to my office for her scheduled meeting.”

Draco leaned down to collect his bag and nodded to Professor Snape before leaving, his thoughts a swirling mass that he could barely untangle.

*******

Draco made a monumental effort to let his life return to normal.

When Draco was faced with other members of the D.A. as the weeks passed, he didn’t quite know how to act. On one occasion, he and Granger reached for an ingredient at the same time in the Potions supply cupboard. They both pulled their hands back as if they’d been burned. Draco didn’t know what to do and Granger was staring at him. He settled on sneering and snatching what he needed from the shelf before she had a chance to, shoving down the bitter bile that rose in his throat. He berated himself all the way back to his seat, silently fuming; in the past he wouldn’t have cared how he treated Granger at all—she was nothing more than the scum on the bottom of Draco’s expensive shoes to him. But that was before.

It was more than a little frustrating, namely because he didn’t even _like_ Granger. She was still as prissy as ever, constantly shoving her abundance of knowledge in the face of anyone who stood still long enough to listen.

And then there were people like the Patil twins, and Michael Corner—and, hell, even Justin Finch-Fletchley wasn’t half bad once Draco got to know him. They were people Draco had classes with, that he saw often outside of the neutral confines of a D.A. meeting.

On one hand, he felt a kinship with them, but on the other he felt like a line had been drawn in the sand because their group might have been betrayed by a Ravenclaw, but it was the Inquisitorial Squad that hunted them down—and the Inquisitorial Squad was made up entirely of Slytherins. Draco didn’t know whether he should feel loyalty to his House and stand by it, just as superior to the other students in the school as his blood was to lesser wizards—or if he could still consider himself friends with some of the people he’d come to know better at the meetings.

Despite his pride, it was difficult to think he was truly superior to some of them, when more than half of them had easily bested him and excelled above him under Potter’s tutelage.

Draco didn’t know what he felt; he was only aware of the watchful eyes of Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle tracking his every move, as if they were wolves lying in wait for their prey to misstep.

Draco wondered if Pansy was going through the same troubling feelings as him; she hadn’t been at the last meeting that was raided by the Inquisitorial Squad, skipping it in favour of holding court over the girl's dormitory. He wasn’t even sure if she was invested in the same way Draco had been—Pansy skipped meetings as often as she attended them, sporadically showing up when her Galleon went hot in her pocket.

Draco sighed and closed the heavy tome he was taking notes from and listened to the muted _thump_ echo in the library. He wasn’t alone; other students from his year and seventh year were crowding every available table to revise.

The end of the year was looming, and Draco had his O.W.L.s to think about rather than Harry Potter.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, pushing his fingertips into his eyelids to relieve the dull ache in his temple before it fully set in. He’d been at the library reading the fine print of dusty old textbooks for nearly two hours.

He swallowed and looked at the lines in his hand, imagining the warmth of Potter’s palm against his when they shook hands. It had been weeks since their argument; nearly two months had passed.

Draco felt the loss of his strange truce with Potter like a lost limb. He found himself missing their secret meetups and being able to share something that vaguely resembled the friendship he had always craved with Potter.

Draco made a subdued, frustrated sound and closed his hand into a fist.

Merlin’s fucking pants, it was like he was mooning over Potter as if they’d been star-crossed lovers forbidden from seeing each other, rather than two arseholes who couldn’t ever hope to get along for an extended length of time.

He squeezed his fingers tighter, letting his nails dig crescent-shaped reminders into the meat of his palm, lest he forget it again, and pulled another textbook from the pile at his elbow to continue revising.

Draco continued in that vein as May dwindled into June. On the eleventh, exams began and ran for two weeks at the end of the spring term. Students scurried through the castle like headless chickens, frantically muttering to themselves as they tried to jolt their brains into recalling a whole school year’s worth of knowledge. The fifth and seventh years were particularly harrowed-looking, deep purple bags of exhaustion beneath their eyes from too many late nights spent on their studies, their eyes vacant and haunted when someone brought up exams.

Draco eyed some of those students with a smug bloom of pride at his own intelligence; he’d been biding his time well and revising strategically. The knowledge returned to him as easily as a loyal mare returning from the pasture.

He breezed through most of his exams, even feeling that he did exceptionally well on his Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., when in the past it had been an exam that caused him stress. The proctor for the exam had smiled encouragingly at him. Draco wanted to show off his Patronus, after practicing it more in private, but he also didn’t want the whole room to see—something that was unlike him. It was one thing that Draco, for some indiscernible reason, wanted to keep to himself.

Near the end of the testing period, Draco was in the Great Hall to sit the History of Magic exam.

Potter was in the same group of students taking it with him. Their eyes met once, for the briefest of charged moments, as they found their seats. Draco stared at the back of his head when Potter turned around. He didn’t give Draco a second glance before the exam began, making a swirl of sour emotion coil inside Draco.

He glanced down at the parchment and picked up his quill with a jerky motion, his face set into a grim scowl, pinched and tense. Draco read over the questions, blinked and had to read them once more, his mind still snagged on Potter’s blasé attitude toward him.

Didn’t Potter regret their falling out the same way Draco did? Didn’t he miss Draco’s company at all? Perhaps he hadn’t meant anything to Potter, Draco thought bitterly. It seemed a valid enough theory; after all, it seemed he always meant more to Draco. It was like he could never break past the barrier Granger and Weasley and his other friends had to truly know Potter.

He tried to focus on his own test, attempting to push Potter from his mind and refusing to let him distract Draco from another exam after the Charms O.W.L., but that effort became impossible when, partway through the exam, Potter screamed and leapt out of his chair. His face was ashen, as if he had seen a ghost. Potter looked around wildly, muttering to himself.

The proctor, Professor Tofty, stepped forward. “Are you well young man? Perhaps you should go to the hospital wing.”

Potter whirled around to face the proctor, his movements twitchy, like he might dart off rabbit-quick. He shook his head and refused to go to the infirmary.

Draco watched silently, along with the rest of their classmates—his quill poised over his own parchment—as Potter succumbed to what appeared to be a minor breakdown of his mental state. Draco supposed it was likely to happen sooner rather than later; he always knew Potter was unhinged, deranged.

“I have to go,” Potter said hoarsely, his eyes flicking around the room.

They landed on Draco and stayed there, locking on his in a stare that lasted for the span of several heartbeats. His lips moved, trying to form words that didn’t come out. Time seemed to slow and freeze around them as Draco stared back at Potter’s frantic gaze. Potter’s eyes broke away from Draco’s and time sped back up once more, feeling as if hours had passed rather than seconds.

Potter repeated himself once more and darted from the Great Hall, trailed by the surprised stares of everyone in the room.

Draco realised belatedly that his breath was coming in harsh pants; he hadn’t been aware, too wrapped up in the scene Potter caused. He glanced down blindly at his half-finished exam and swallowed. There was a deep urge tugging at him to follow Potter, to go with him wherever he was going in such a hurry.

But he didn’t do that.

Instead, he dipped his quill in his inkpot to re-wet it and completed his History of Magic exam with Potter hovering at the back of his mind.


	3. PART 2 — HOGWARTS, EIGHTH YEAR

**PART 2 — HOGWARTS, EIGHTH YEAR — DARLING SO IT GOES**

Harry debated for nearly the entire summer whether he should return to Hogwarts or not.

He knew Kingsley wanted him at the Ministry of Magic; he’d said something about it to Harry every time he was present to testify at a Wizengamot hearing during the Death Eater trials.

Hermione was returning, of course. As soon as McGonagall had announced that their beloved school would reopen in time for the fall term, Hermione had immediately dragged Ron and Harry to Diagon Alley to shop for supplies. When Harry pointed out that they were already of age, and that it would be odd to return to student life, Hermione had brushed him off. She insisted that she wanted to properly complete her education and earn her N.E.W.T.s without having to take independent study courses and sit the exams at the Ministry, as others decided to do.

Harry was unsure where his place was—whether he felt as if he could return to the place that had been the first home where he’d truly felt like he belonged, or if he should press forward and do something with the Ministry to help the wizarding world rebuild. His guilt pressed in on him each time they were in Diagon Alley—it was still only partially operational. Some shop owners never returned after the Battle at Hogwarts, even after the celebrations declared Voldemort dead for good.

It was depressing to see the once-bustling shops empty and still blasted apart from Death Eaters raids. As he looked around he saw so many people who needed help.

Ron promised that he would support whatever decision Harry made, but he made a strong point when he told Harry that he didn’t have to bear the world’s burdens on his shoulders—didn’t have to be their Chosen One any longer. He pointed out that Harry could be _just Harry_ , and return to the normal life he should have had all along.

And that had done it for Harry, just two weeks before the first of September.

Hermione had been exasperated, putting in an Owl Post order for all of the supplies he didn’t buy for himself when they had gone to Diagon Alley for Ron and Hermione’s school things. Harry had thanked her with a sheepish expression, and her look had softened. She’d thumped him lightly on the shoulder and he had pulled her in for a tight, one-armed hug, muttering, “Thank you, ‘Mione. Still don’t know where we’d be without you,” into the thick spirals of her loose hair.

It felt a little bizarre to ride the Hogwarts Express to Hogsmeade when September arrived, sort of like Harry was a kid too old to go on a carnival ride but still got on with the smaller children anyway.

Ron was able to secure them a compartment to themselves, thanks to his height and his status as a war hero. He towered over the first years that stared up at him with wide-eyed awe.

“Come on, you lot, in here,” Ron called to Harry and Hermione as they followed him through the corridor.

The gathered group of first years spotted them both and their eyes grew even wider, their mouths hanging agape as they excitedly shoved and tugged at each other’s arms. Harry spared them a self-conscious look and stepped past Ron into the compartment. Had they all been that small as first years? Harry felt like he loomed over them, and suddenly felt so much older than he was. For Christ’s sake, he was only eighteen and he was growing to be so despondent.

He shook away the gloomy thoughts and looked out the window, watching the hustling rush of students and parents hurrying to say their goodbyes and load their things onto the train. Harry told himself that he was giving himself the chance to start over—to have a _normal_ year, for once, one without the threat of Voldemort or any of his sinister machinations looming over him.

A shock of white-blond hair in his peripheral vision caught Harry’s attention. He turned his head sharply, nearly pressing his nose against the window, his glasses beginning to fog at the bottom with the heat of his breath in close quarters. His heart beat excitedly in his chest, and a shiver of anticipation rushed through his body; his stomach swooped and bottomed out. Harry kept his eyes on him, watching with unblinking focus and willing him to turn around.

He hadn’t seen Malfoy since the Trials, when he and his mother had sat in the public gallery with resolute faces as Lucius Malfoy awaited his sentence. Narcissa Malfoy had been let off for the charges of conspiring with Death Eaters after Harry’s testimony detailing how she had lied to Voldemort and saved his life. Malfoy had been at _that_ trial, too, his eyes watching Harry with sharp focus.

Harry held his breath as the distant figure turned to look over his shoulder. It was him. Malfoy was returning to Hogwarts with the rest of the students from their year, coming back for a repeat of their seventh year education.

“Harry?” Hermione asked, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Ron’s helped the first years find their own compartment. They won’t bother us.”

Harry blinked, his mind slowly returning to the present. His eyes darted back to the window for a moment, but he couldn’t see Malfoy any longer. He cleared his throat and shifted to face Hermione, leaning his head back against the high seat. She mirrored him and held his hand.

“You’re going to be alright,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s a mantra you have to tell yourself.”

Hermione had spent the entire summer coming at Harry from different angles with a fountain of psychoanalysis, and a self-help book or five. Harry had found it exhausting at first, but he knew she was only doing it because she loved him and was worried he would spiral into grief and depression, feared he might submit to the crushing press of swirling emotions.

“Right,” Harry agreed, mostly just to appease her.

Setting her off on another rant about Mind Healing and the importance of working through the stages of grief was not something Harry was in the mood for.

She smiled and settled herself more comfortably, leaning her head on his shoulder. Harry tilted his own head and rested his cheek against the pillow of her soft, natural hair. 

For several minutes it was peacefully quiet in the bubble of their compartment, the muted sounds of other students boarding the train and finding their own place floating in and out.

The compartment door jostled and slid open. Ron stepped in, beaming. He squeezed onto the seat beside Hermione so that all three of them were sandwiched together on the same side. It was a tight fit; they were nowhere near as small as they’d once been when they were eleven. Ron pulled Hermione’s feet across his lap and she turned to lean her back against Harry’s side. Ron absently smoothed his palms over her jeans.

“You’ll never believe this,” he said excitedly.

Hermione turned her head slightly to shoot a wry look over her shoulder at Harry. He raised his eyebrows at Ron quizzically.

Ron leaned forward and gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “They had my Chocolate Frog card! _Mine_! Hermione, they asked me to sign it for them!”

Harry burst out laughing, jostling Hermione. “Brilliant, mate.”

“I know you’ve got used to it after all this time,” Ron said. “To the point we all know you’re bloody sick of it. But the rest of us aren’t used to seeing our faces on _Chocolate Frog cards_ and being asked for _autographs_.”

“Charming,” Hermione said, deadpan. She swatted at Ron and captured his hand in hers, automatically twining their fingers together. “Harry, my boyfriend has a big head to match that big d—”

“Oi!” Ron shouted at the same time as Harry shot forward to cover her mouth with his hand.

“Listen, Hermione, hearing about that once was enough. Alright?” When she snorted and nodded, Harry removed his hand and shifted to lean back against the window, allowing Hermione to flop back against him more fully.

Harry grinned at the pair of them. He loved that nothing had really changed between his best friends and himself after they admitted their feelings for each other. In fact, the three of them had grown closer than ever during the summer months, leaning on each other during the darker moments and turning to each other for support.

The train whistle blew and the Hogwarts Express began to pull away from King’s Cross Station. Harry’s stomach did a neat little somersault and he looked out the window, watching the families remaining on the platform, still waving. He watched until the train picked up enough speed for the faces to blur together.

It was strange to be going home to Hogwarts, but he was glad he had Ron and Hermione by his side.

*******

They didn’t get very far—barely out of London—before a knock sounded on the compartment door. The three of them glanced up as it slid open.

Harry blinked in surprise, sitting up slightly.

Draco Malfoy stood in the entryway.

He looked so much more refined and overdressed than Harry and his friends, wearing pressed trousers and a crisp shirt with pearlescent, expensive looking buttons. His hair was longer than Harry was used to seeing it—or perhaps it was a trick of the way he wore it loose, without gelling it back so severely. His long fringe brushed against the sharp lines of his cheeks and he wore a traveling cloak with silver chain clasps. Harry looked down at his own rumpled t-shirt, zip-hoodie, and jeans with a frayed hole in one knee and frowned.

When Malfoy saw who occupied the compartment, he looked tempted to to leave, but he hesitated and set his jaw, his lips pressing together into a flat line. After another moment of surveying Harry, Ron, and Hermione, he spoke.

“Might I sit with you for the journey?” Malfoy asked, excruciatingly polite—so different from any way he’d ever talked to Harry before. “It seems every other compartment is already full.”

Harry had an odd moment of déjà vu and for a brief time he was thrown back to a memory when he was eleven and had met the boy that would become his best friend. He wondered if it was significant somehow that Malfoy was there, making the same request. The universe did seem to enjoy fucking with him.

Ron and Hermione both glanced at him warily, waiting for Harry to answer.

Harry supposed he couldn’t blame them for watching his reaction—the Malfoys _had_ put them all in a dungeon, and Hermione was tortured at the cruel hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. Draco had seemed too frozen with shock to be able to be of much help to them, no matter that Draco once said he’d not wanted to be a part of Voldemort’s cause. The only saving grace of the whole unpleasant ordeal had been that Malfoy refused to identify Harry. In their struggle to escape, Harry was pretty sure Malfoy actually let him have his wand. He’d barely put up a fight against Harry, the wands in his grip slipping easily from his fingers when Harry disarmed him.

“Yeah, alright,” Harry said after what seemed to be an uncomfortably long pause. He noticed Malfoy’s shoulder sag infinitesimally before he stepped fully into the compartment to join them.

When he met the carefully blank looks of Ron and Hermione, they blinked at him slowly. Malfoy took a seat opposite them and held himself stiffly. His grey eyes quickly moved over the way Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all sprawled together, before he quickly turned his gaze to the stare out the window at the passing scenery.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said after a beat, his cut-glass voice filling the stale air.

Hermione sat up and touched her feet back to the ground, leaving Harry’s side cold and missing her comforting warmth. Ron tucked her further against his own side, wrapping a long, freckled arm still faded with scars from the Department of Mysteries around her shoulders.

“So, you’ve decided to return to Hogwarts for the repeat year, as well,” Hermione said conversationally.

Malfoy looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Yes…obviously.”

Ron bristled and Hermione put her hand down on his thigh, squeezing once. “I would have thought you’d be taking the exams at the Ministry instead of repeating your whole seventh year. It seems like a waste of time if you’ve already learned most of the course study.”

Malfoy took a long moment to answer, his jaw working. “Most of the learning environment last year was…not ideal,” he said haltingly. His gaze slid over to Harry for a moment before quickly moving away again. “I didn’t fancy the idea of sitting in my home to complete the revisions for the N.E.W.T.s, so I am returning to earn a more traditional Hogwarts education.”

Hermione sat up even straighter and leaned toward Malfoy. It was too late for Harry to warn Malfoy off the rant he’d inadvertently set Hermione on. Ron made a faint, pained sound and shot Harry a commiserating look. Harry sighed quietly, settling in for a lecture on the state of education since the war ended and the appalling and irresponsible lack of structure for independent study.

“You’ve done it now,” Ron muttered. He shimmied lower against the seat and closed his eyes, one hand absently stroking Hermione’s side while he settled in for a nap. “Wake me when the Trolley witch comes round.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense for the Ministry to not offer Britain an alternative between the two extremes. How can our choices be Hogwarts or completely independent study,” Hermione said. She was picking up speed, her words rushing together. 

Malfoy seemed to realise what Ron was referring to and shot Harry an alarmed look. Harry merely shrugged. 

Hermione went on without paying attention to the exchange. “Can you imagine what it would have been like if Hogwarts hadn’t been able to reopen? There’s no fallback, no back up alternatives in place—like we’re in the Dark Ages.”

“Maybe Potter would have had an opportunity to try his hand at teaching again,” Malfoy said when Hermione paused to take a breath. Harry looked at him sharply. “You could have opened your own school. I’m sure it would’ve been quite popular.”

“Lucky Hogwarts is reopening then, isn’t it,” Harry said.

There was a tense beat of silence before Malfoy turned to look out the window again with a slow exhale through his nose, effectively ending the conversation. Harry settled back against the seat and when Hermione looked like she wanted to dive back into her opinions on wizarding education for magical folk, Harry put a hand on her arm to quell her.

_Don’t bother_ , he mouthed at her.

Harry saw Malfoy’s mouth pinching, like he’d bitten off something sour, but he said nothing else. Harry suspected he had caught Harry’s mouthed message.

The minutes that ticked by grew more and more of a torment, and Harry longed for the comfortable familiarity when it had just been the three of them in the compartment. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Malfoy returning to school with them; Harry could already feel all of his energy and focus being drawn to paying attention to Malfoy.

After their argument at the end of fifth year, they hadn’t spoken very much outside of the times they’d been forced to be in each other’s company. Sixth year had been a peculiar one in which their bitter rivalry fizzled into an odd limbo while Harry’s obsession with what Malfoy was doing kicked into overdrive and Malfoy wilted into a shell of himself. Malfoy no longer played for the Slytherin Quidditch team, or seemed to do any of the things Harry’d grown to expect from him. Harry even followed him whenever he snuck off with Nott, always arguing with him. He had been so paranoid throughout the year, thinking the worst: that Malfoy had joined up with the Death Eaters after all, despite everything that had happened during fifth year.

He’d been wrong, of course. Hermione and Ron couldn’t believe that he’d stalked Malfoy the entire year, and he hadn’t even been the Death Eater they suspected to be targeting Dumbledore. No, in the end it had been Theodore Nott, who repaired a Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things and made it possible for Bellatrix and the other Death Eaters to enter Hogwarts. Harry still kicked himself for not really noticing what the arguments between Malfoy and Nott were about when he’d followed them a handful of times.

It was still difficult to think of that night on the Astronomy Tower, when Dumbledore had offered Nott a different path than the one he’d set himself on. Snape had burst in and, after the cryptic exchange between Dumbledore and himself about the Vow Harry had learned of later, Snape disarmed and killed Dumbledore. Nott had been screaming at Snape that he’d stolen his glory, his special task.

Harry was saved from his spiraling thoughts by the sound of the Trolley witch passing through the corridor, her kind voice calling to the students. Ron woke from his doze like a dog that’d heard the leash come off the hook. He sat up and blinked, looking around.

“D’you want anything?” Ron asked, addressing Hermione and Harry. After a moment, his gaze slid over to Malfoy and he raised his eyebrows quizzically. “You too, Malfoy.”

Harry heard Malfoy’s neck pop when he spun his head around too quickly, his fringe fanning out. He looked like he’d never expected Ron to offer him any direct kindness, and like he didn’t quite know how to process it.

“I can…buy my own sweets,” Malfoy said. He rummaged under his cloak and produced a handful of Sickles. “Here. Get some Chocolate Frogs and whatever else you’d like.”

It was a sufficient amount of money for more than enough treats from the Trolley witch. Ron looked like he was about to refuse the offer for a moment, likely too prideful to take money from Malfoy of all people, but to Harry’s surprise he took half of the coins Malfoy held out and returned shortly after with an armful of assorted snacks.

“Don’t think this makes me like you any better just because you’ve bought the sweets,” Ron said as he tore into one of the Chocolate Frog packages. “You’re still a prat.”

“Likewise, Weasley.” Malfoy rolled his eyes and snatched one of the Chocolate Frog packages from the pile. “I bought you lot something from the Trolley, that’s all. Merlin, it’s not like it was a bloody marriage proposal.”

For some reason that Harry was unable to discern while he was focused on biting off the head of his squirming Chocolate Frog, Malfoy’s eyes flickered to him when he said marriage. Just for the briefest of moments, before he darted them elsewhere. Harry pushed the odd little occurrence from his mind as they ate their sweets together.

“Who did you get?” Ron asked, eyeing Malfoy when he examined the Famous Wizard Card with narrowed eyes.

“ _You_ ,” Malfoy said scathingly, tossing the card towards Ron.

“That’s bloody ace, give it here!” Ron gushed, scrambling to catch the card as it fell. “I haven’t been able to get one yet. Tried all summer, didn’t I, Hermione?”

Hermione hummed in acknowledgement. She’d taken out one of her textbooks and was reading up on Transfiguration theory with a thoughtful expression, a Pumpkin Pasty in her hand.

“Don’t bite your arm off. You’ve probably already fucked off to another card,” Malfoy said dismissively. “Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, so quietly that Harry almost didn’t hear it.

Harry watched the exchange with amusement, chewing on his treat. He glanced down at his own Famous Wizard Card and sighed when he saw his own face looking back up at him.

“Here,” Harry said and tossed his card towards Ron. “You can have mine, too.”

“Yes!” Ron punched the air. “Thanks, mate.”

Harry felt weird having his face on Chocolate Frog cards. When they were in Diagon Alley during the summer, the people that kept accosting them to thank them and shake their hands also had cards they asked to have signed. Harry had been very uncomfortable with the whole business of Chocolate Frog cards since then, but Ron was really enjoying the recognition. He was the only Weasley who could claim to be so famous that he had his own Chocolate Frog card. There was one for Hermione, too, of course. Now Ron had the full set. He’d found Hermione’s first and kept it framed in his trunk.

They settled into a more polite, if still awkward, silence as the train sped along on its journey towards Hogwarts.

Harry still wasn’t sure what awaited him when they arrived at Hogwarts, despite the deeply ingrained familiarity of the trip. The anticipation was nearly as great as when he had been eleven and riding the Hogwarts Express for the first time, unsure of what lie ahead. If only he’d known then.

*******

After the Welcoming Feast in the Great Hall, Harry and the others from his year followed McGonagall down a dimly lit corridor that was in the opposite direction from the tower that housed Gryffindor. It seemed they were heading to a part of the castle that would be neutral ground for the eighth years, far away from any of the group’s respective House dormitories.

After another turn and past a row of suits of armor that still looked banged up from the Battle, they arrived at a peaceful looking painting of a landscape at sunset. It immediately began to set Harry at ease, chasing away most of the melancholy he felt at not returning to the red and gold draped tower he’d called home for seven years.

“Triumphant,” McGonagall said in her Scottish burr and the painting swung open.

She led the group of them inside, and Harry joined the others in looking around curiously at their new quarters.

“Since the other Houses no longer have room to host those of you that have returned, and in an effort to give you your own space to better transition into your status as young adults, we have re-arranged this unused staff apartment to suit the needs of our returning eighth years,” McGonagall explained with a sweeping gesture of her arm. “On the doorway of every dormitory you will find who is assigned to each room.”

Malfoy stepped up beside Harry, looking around at the space. Harry surreptitiously watched him from the corner of his eye, feeling acutely aware of the body heat from Malfoy’s close proximity. He rubbed the pads of his fingers together and quickly focused on something else. The first thing his eyes landed on was the furniture around the fireplace.

The main room did not exude the same warm and welcoming feeling provided by the Gryffindor common room, but Harry could see the appeal. The sofas and plump armchairs looked comfortable, and there were desks and tabletops spread around the room with ample space to study. He spotted a squat table in one corner set between two chairs and decided it would be the perfect spot to play Wizard’s Chess with Ron. Plush rugs with intricate designs on them covered the floor. Harry looked closer and noticed the patterns moving in the same way that magical portraits did. He smiled faintly to himself, still charmed by magic and how it made even the simplest of things special. The fireplace was flanked on both sides by well-stocked bookcases, and Hermione was already drifting over to it with Padma and Terry trailing behind her. There were two enchanted windows that worked similarly to the ceiling in the Great Hall, and one large real window that let moonlight spill across the floor.

It was different from the feeling Harry got in the Gryffindor Tower, and it looked nothing like the Slytherin common room, from what Harry could remember of it. It even diverged from the brief impression Harry had got of Ravenclaw Tower during the Battle. He was curious how this compared to the Hufflepuffs’ domain. The new space for the eighth year students felt more mature, he finally decided.

The fifteen of them remained subdued while McGonagall watched them explore their new living quarters. Harry wondered if the others felt the same homesickness for their own House as he did, even though they were to remain Sorted as Gryffindors, Slytherins, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws.

Ron walked off in the direction of the arched doorway in the corner and a few of the students broke off from the group to join him.

“Your rooms are down that hall,” McGonagall said.

“Oi, Harry, you’re in the same room as me.” Ron’s voice echoed from the hallway.

“Guess you still can’t escape his snoring, eh, Harry?” Seamus asked. Harry’s lips quirked up in response. He was glad, at least, that some things would remain the same.

“Now, there will be some rules,” McGonagall announced, drawing their attention again. “You will be allowed to exit the grounds and visit Hogsmeade at your own discretion without having to wait for Hogsmeade weekends. However,” McGonagall said. She paused and fixed them all with a serious look. “I ask that you not leave Hogwarts _or_ Hogsmeade to venture any farther. This is not a Muggle university and we will not have you popping in and out as you please. If the Hogsmeade privilege is abused, I will revoke it. Should you need to leave the school for any reason, you’ll need to go through the usual steps to gain approval.”

There were murmurs among the group as they took in this information. McGonagall continued. “You will not have a curfew, but we do encourage you to use common sense, and to be courteous of the younger years who do have to abide by one. As many of you are now of age, I cannot prevent you from doing magic as you please, and alcohol will be permitted in moderation—please remain responsible and remember that you are here to complete your schooling and prepare for your N.E.W.T. exams; this is not carte blanche to go wild and act like hooligans. Set an example for the younger students—yes, that means _you_ , Mr Finnigan,” McGonagall said with a pointed look in Seamus’s direction. Titters sounded through the room when he blew her an overdramatic kiss. McGonagall raised her eyes to the ceiling and huffed. “Finally, there are parts of the castle that remain in disrepair, and while we have moved the lessons that normally take place in those sections, we ask that everyone abide the posted notices to stay out of those areas. Now, I will leave you all to get settled in.”

McGonagall paused just before the exit. Her eyes—looking shinier than they had a moment ago—traveled over their group, her normally stern disposition cracking to reveal a softer expression. Her voice wavered when she said, “Welcome back, everyone. It’s very good to see you all here.”

Harry smiled at her as she turned and left their new common room. He looked around at the other returning students and it occurred to him how full-circle everything was. He still remembered what it was like to stand beside them as they nervously awaited their Sorting from the Sorting Hat. Now, they were adults in the eyes of the Ministry—and lumped together once more. There was a sense of rightness to it, Harry supposed.

A loud whoop broke through his thoughts. Seamus was grinning wide as he flung himself sideways into one of the armchairs near the hearth. “Did you hear what good ol’ McGonagall said? We can go down to the village whenever we want! We can _drink_!”

“We’re still here to be students, Seamus,” Hermione pointed out absently. She had an armful of books she’d selected from the shelves of the bookcase and was still perusing the spines for more.

Seamus groaned and leaned his head all the way back over the arm to pin her with a look. “ _Hermione_ , there’ll be time for that later. It’s the first night back. I say we should have a little party.”

Hermione looked at him thoughtfully as others caught Seamus’ rowdy energy. Dean cheered at Seamus’ suggestion and shot a volley of gold sparks from his wand; they fell like sparkling confetti through the air.

“Let’s break in the new dormitory, make it ours,” Dean said.

“We could ask the house-elves to bring us something from the kitchens,” Hannah Abbott suggested, earning a few nods of agreement.

“Yes!” Seamus pumped his fist above his head with an air of success. “And some music. Did anyone pack a wireless in their trunk?”

“Hoping to still catch Potterwatch, Finnigan?” Malfoy muttered under his breath. Harry shot him a sharp, surprised look. He had no idea how Malfoy managed to find out about Potterwatch. Had he listened during the war? Harry didn’t know how he would have learned the passwords. He blinked quickly, picturing Malfoy locking himself in his room and tapping out different beats on a wireless, whispering passwords, until he landed on the right one and listened in with all the others who found comfort in finding out the real news from Order members. Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’ve got one. We might still be able to catch some of Witching Hour,” Ron said as he strolled back into the main room.

There was a rousing chorus of agreement from the group and they began to move around the room. Neville and Terry Boot volunteered to go down to the kitchens with Hannah. Padma, Hermione, and Dean levitated tables out of the way to make more room for their impromptu party.

Malfoy left the room, announcing to no one in particular that he wanted to unpack his trunk. Pansy Parkinson trailed after him with a tense, worried look on her face.

Harry tried to get into the same celebratory mood that everyone else seemed to be caught up in, but his melancholy from before had returned. He couldn’t help wondering what Malfoy was doing in his room with Parkinson and more than anything he wanted to go and check, for old time’s sake. He knew Ron and Hermione would both frown severely at Harry picking up that habit again. It was like a toothache he couldn't stop rubbing his tongue against.

Harry shuffled toward the dorm rooms, watching everyone bustle around the room, laughing and talking animatedly to each other. He wanted to settle in, to try to calm the jittery energy beginning to well up in him.

Music began to play from Ron’s radio, which he’d set on the stone mantle above the roaring fireplace. It was one of Celestina Warbeck’s slower songs, and he pulled Hermione into a dance. Harry watched them from the corner of the room and smiled faintly. Hermione laughed and wrapped her arms tighter around Ron’s neck as he lifted her off the ground and swooped her around, spinning in place to a round of applause from the others.

When the song changed to something more upbeat from the Weird Sisters, Harry ducked into the corridor that led to the other rooms and quickly found his name on one of the lists. He was relieved to see his trunk in the room when he entered. He was both grateful and disappointed that Malfoy was not assigned to the same room.

Harry picked out a bed and levitated his trunk to the foot of it. He opened it and pulled out his broom, and it suddenly sounded like a brilliant idea to get out of the castle, feeling slightly suffocated within the confines of the stone walls. He debated for only a moment before making a decision and hoisting his broom onto his shoulder. Fresh air was exactly what he needed after the long train journey having to share the same space as Malfoy.

On his way out of the new common room, Harry caught Hermione’s eye and mouthed _going flying_. She shot him a worried look and nodded, waving to him as he left.

Harry could hear the muffled sound of the party as he shoved a hand in his pocket and strolled down the corridor as fast as his legs would carry him.

*******

Draco sat in his room and listened to the boisterous laughter of the other eighth year students celebrating the start of their repeat school year. He didn’t feel much like rejoicing, but he also didn’t want to be so maudlin on the first night back. Pansy only joined him for twenty minutes before she kissed his cheek and drifted out to the party. He could hear her coarse laugh mingling with the others.

His problem was the fact that his family name was splashed all over the _Daily Prophet_ , and even though Draco’s mother was cleared of charges—and acknowledged for her act of bravery to save Potter’s life—people looked at his family differently wherever they went. Draco hadn’t even involved himself in the war, aside from when it dug its claws into him and dragged him in, anyway. He never took the Dark Mark—yet his father’s actions reflected on him and with Lucius away in Azkaban, Draco was the only Malfoy left to judge and blame for things that weren’t his fault.

He stubbornly continued to make trips to Diagon Alley after the Trials were over to make sure his face was seen publicly so that people might start feeling guilty for treating him so harshly when he’d done _nothing_ wrong. Draco held his head high, turning his nose up at anyone who dared cross him and his mother. Once he even was forced to bare his pristine arm, despite his loud, outraged protests, to prove he was never a Death Eater; that was his father, thanks very much.

Draco didn’t blame his father for his choices, not after that Dark arsehole took up residency in Malfoy Manor and kept Lucius around to prove a point to other Death Eaters. He didn’t blame him—but he _did_ resent him for not being stronger, for not paving his own path to power instead of riding the coattails of a psychotic half-blood hellbent on destroying their world in the name of blood purity.

In the end, though, Lucius was still Draco’s father, and Draco loved him—no matter how disappointed in him he was.

His mother was proud of his choice to return to Hogwarts, though she clung to him before he left Wiltshire to travel to London. Draco would be worried if she chose to stay in the mausoleum that their home had become, but he could rest easy because she reconnected with her estranged sister, Andromeda, over the summer and Draco felt better that she wouldn’t be left alone.

Draco had grown so used to everyone in the wizarding world judging him for his family’s sordid involvement in the war that he expected much of the same at Hogwarts. He arrived later than he expected to at King’s Cross Station and his anxiety spiked when every compartment he checked was already full. He couldn’t believe he asked Potter and his friends to join them, but he didn’t fancy spending the entire train ride stalking up and down the corridors like an annoyed house cat. It was an awkward journey, but Draco suspected that Potter would let his unending penchant for kindness win out over any grudge he might hold over Draco and, miraculously, they were able to keep the atmosphere in the compartment peaceable between the four of them for the duration of the train ride.

He had a long road ahead to prove himself to the world; especially because he was no longer starting life out on a high rung, having lost the advantage his family’s prestigious name used to guarantee him. Still, Draco was obstinate and unyielding in his desire to succeed in making a better mark on the world than his father.

Tired of sitting around, Draco shot up from the bed and rummaged through his trunk for his broom, deciding he would rather lift his mood with the wind in his hair from flying than shutting himself away in the dark. Broom in hand, he slipped from the room he was assigned to and skirted the outer edges of the new common room. Blaise saw him leave, but didn’t make a move to stop him.

The tension in Draco’s shoulders eased at last when he was in the corridor by himself, and he relaxed further when he finally set his sights on the Quidditch pitch. The weight of his broom was familiar and comforting, as was the smell of the grass while he approached the pitch. It had been uncharacteristically warm in Scotland for the first of September, far warmer and sunnier than Draco could remember it being in all his years at Hogwarts, and the scent of the sunshine, sweet and fragrant, lingered on the grounds under the blanket of the night sky. The moon hung high above the forest, shining down onto the stands where the House tapestries were still singed and tattered from the fires that raged the night of the Battle.

Draco frowned up at the stands and turned to mount his broom, shooting into the air so quickly that his eyes prickled and his breath gusted out of him. He pulled up short when he nearly crashed into another figure who was in the air.

“Watch it!” Potter’s gruff voice was deep in the dark, his eyes gleaming in the pale moonlight, but still, Draco recognised him immediately.

“Sorry,” Draco said, drifting into a lazy circle. “I didn’t think anyone else was out here.”

“Malfoy?” Potter blinked behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, the moon reflecting off them when he shifted and directed his broom closer. “I came out here a while ago.”

“I would have thought you would stay in our new common room, enjoying the celebrations that have everyone else in such high spirits,” Draco mused, tipping his head back to look up at Potter when he flew below him.

Potter looked at him oddly and shook his head. “Wasn’t much in the mood for a party.”

“Me either,” Draco admitted.

Potter’s attention drifted to the castle while Draco flew back to be on level with him again. Somehow, everything Draco felt earlier faded into the background when he was around Potter, especially now that they were on an even playing field. For the first time since arriving back at Hogwarts, Draco felt himself relax.

Without saying anything, they both began flying laps side by side. On each pass, Potter glanced in the direction of the castle.

“It’s not going anywhere, Potter,” Draco said on the seventh lap. “It will still be there when we get tired or our arses are sore, whichever happens first.”

Potter shot him a sharp sidelong look. Draco smirked, refusing to rephrase what he said to make it clear that he meant their arses would be sore _from flying_ and not because Draco was actually propositioning Potter. He wasn’t, anyway.

After a beat, Potter cleared his throat.

“I know it’s not going anywhere,” Potter said. “It’s just…do you feel the way the air feels? It’s…I don’t know, it’s just a strange feeling, being back.”

Draco hummed in silent agreement.

“I just wanted to get away from everything for a little bit,” Potter said, sounding hunted.

“I’m surprised you’re back at all,” Draco said neutrally. He was burning with curiosity to know why Potter would return to Hogwarts when he could be in the limelight at the Ministry. “I’d heard the Ministry already wanted you to become the Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic.”

Potter snorted and directed his broom into a loop, feinting around Draco and making him react on instinct to bank to the side, muscle memory keeping them both from colliding. Potter’s lips twitched into a crooked smile and they let the subject drop, chasing each other around the pitch and exercising their rusty Quidditch moves.

“Do you have a Snitch?” Draco asked, his mood lifted after flying at breakneck speed around the pitch after Potter for three quarters of an hour. “We could chase that instead of each other.”

“Nah, the one I have is in my trunk,” Potter said, sounding a little breathless.

“You sound out of practice,” Draco pointed out, grinning unrepentantly when Potter kicked out at him half-heartedly with one foot.

It was almost strange how being in the air on their brooms made for completely neutral ground, making everything between them melt away and seem easy, almost as if they had been friends from the start. Draco wasn’t sure that would be the case when they were back on solid ground.

“We can do this again, sometime,” Potter said, giving up on trying to kick the bristles of Draco’s broom. “Bring a Snitch next time.”

“Very well,” Draco agreed.

Potter began to descend to the ground below. “I’m going to head in, before I freeze my knob off. You coming?”

“Not right now,” Draco said, arcing his broom into another spiral. “I’ll return shortly. I want to fly a little longer.”

“Suit yourself,” Potter called. He hesitated a moment before adding, ”Don’t stay out too late.”

Heat bloomed inside Draco and he whipped around to stare after Potter while he landed and ambled off.

He sped around the pitch, feeling the wind rush against his cheeks until his fingers began to feel numb. At last, he aimed his broom at the ground and landed, dismounting and slinging his broom over his shoulder.

With one last look at the tarnished goal posts, Draco turned and strolled back to the castle.

*******

Several days into term, after classes began, Harry made a short stop at the kitchens with Hermione and Ron behind him, holding hands. They only had morning lessons, so their afternoon was open to do as they pleased. Harry waved to the house-elves in greeting when they entered and they swarmed the three of them, calling their names.

Hermione looked like she was hiding tears welling in her brown eyes, quickly ducking her face against Ron’s shoulder. Ron gave her a squeeze, chuckling and holding his hand out for an elf to shake.

“How may we be helping?” one elf piped up.

Harry felt a sharp pang looking at him, reminded for a moment of Dobby. He looked at Ron, who seemed to know without Harry saying anything. Ron stepped forward and smiled kindly at the elf.

“We were hoping to have a picnic outside. Would it be any trouble to get a basket of sandwiches and a jug of Pumpkin Juice?” Ron asked.

The house-elves trembled with eagerness, talking over one another. “Right away, sirs! Of course you may be having sandwiches! Fimby be making Harry Potter the _best_ lunch!”

Hermione knelt down beside the group of elves closest to her and pulled one into a hug. “Thank you, so much. We appreciate all of your hard work.”

The elf looked star-struck when she pulled back, shyly scurrying away and returning with a giant container of Pumpkin Juice levitating behind it. In short order, they were given a basket of warm and cold sandwiches and a fresh pie. Ron’s eyelashes fluttered with delight when he examined the basket’s contents and guided Harry and Hermione out of the kitchens, profusely thanking the elves on their way out.

Harry regained control over himself by the time they made it outside and found a sunny patch of the lawn to sit on. Hermione pulled out her wand and transfigured a rock into a quilt, levitating it and letting it float back to the ground with a gentle Wingardium Leviosa. Ron began to unpack their spread, conjuring glasses to pour their juice into and flopped onto his side near Hermione. Harry sat as well, letting his thigh rest against Ron’s foot and leaned back on his hands to angle his face towards the sky, soaking up the sun peeking through the thick billows of clouds hanging over the castle grounds.

Ron passed Harry a warm roast beef sandwich and Harry bit into it, humming in delight. Somehow the sandwich _tasted_ like all the nostalgia Harry felt for Hogwarts in the way that it tasted like home.

Ron was equally happy, lolling his head into Hermione’s lap as he chewed a bite of his sandwich with a blissed out expression. Hermione pulled her springy hair into a large bun and tied it off with an elastic from her wrist.

They enjoyed the pleasant weather as they ate their lunch. Hermione pulled a book out from her pocket and returned it to normal size by tapping the corner of the spine with her wand. Ron had his eyes closed while he started in on his third sandwich, mumbling in a deep rumble when Harry or Hermione spoke to him.

Harry’s gaze drifted to the Quidditch pitch and he considered going flying later. He had actually enjoyed himself the first night back, flying with Malfoy. It was somehow familiar in a way that helped Harry get past the storm of confusing emotions that kept him from just enjoying being back in the castle after so many months on that first day back.

Even though he still caught himself having moments where he had to stop and fight off memories—flashes of horrible moments from the Battle or from the end of sixth year when Death Eaters stormed into the castle—he began to settle in, adapting to the new normal of eighth year.

“This is brilliant,” Ron piped up after an extended period of comfortable, companionable quiet.

Harry rubbed a hand over his stomach, warm and full from the food. He caught a whiff of the pie and shifted to pull it out of the basket. Ron sat up to join him and they served up slices that were still steaming from the house-elf stasis magic.

“We should keep having lunch out here while the weather is nice,” Harry said. “I like the quiet.”

“It’s nice to just be relaxing at Hogwarts, instead of worrying about who’s plotting to kill Harry this time,” Ron said.

“Well, give it time. We’re only a week into term,” Hermione quipped.

Harry snorted and ate his slice of pie. “As long as you don’t start in on the revision schedule for N.E.W.T.s before the middle of term,” Harry said. She tilted a wink in his direction.

When he was done eating, he put the plate aside and stretched out to sun himself, his legs hooked over Ron’s and his hand reaching out to touch Hermione’s ankle when she crossed her legs in front of her.

Not long after, he fell asleep like that, completely relaxed and at ease.

*******

After Potions class ended for the day, Slughorn bid them a good afternoon and was out the door before any of the seventh and eighth years had time to pack up their things. It was only the third week of September, and the old coot was already shooing them away instead of lingering to ensure that they understood the course material.

As he left, Draco fell into step beside Potter without meaning to, naturally drifting toward him after having sat side by side in class. Slughorn assigned them as partners on the first day, pairing everyone alphabetically to accommodate for the large combination of seventh and eighth year students.

He cast surreptitious looks around at their fellow classmates, on guard in case any of them felt like taking their anger out on him, though he mostly managed to avoid enforcing the Carrow’s cruel punishments, foisting the responsibility off onto other pure-blood students who were more willing to fall in line. It happened once, at the end of the first week, but hadn’t occurred again since. Still, Draco remained prepared for the inevitable, preferring to watch his back rather than grow complacent.

Draco put his hands in his pockets and his fingers automatically curled around the charmed Galleon from fifth year. He was in the habit of carrying it around with him, the gold of the coin smooth from how often he’d worried his thumb over it, keeping himself anchored.

When Potter was first partnered with him, Draco tensed, worrying that Potter would be a problem to work with, even after their enjoyable night of flying. Thus far it hadn’t been what Draco expected. To his surprise, Potter flopped down into the seat beside him and muttered a neutral, “Malfoy,” before turning his attention to Slughorn as the lecture began. Potter shared the work evenly with him and listened when Draco made suggestions on brewing technique. He still didn’t seem to grasp the fundamental knowledge that was meant to make up the foundation of their Potions theory, but Potter was passably sufficient—and where he seemed to lack skill, Draco helped him muddle through.

Draco was so wrapped up in his own musings by the time they made it to the Entrance Hall that he wasn’t aware of Potter coming to a stop, and he continued on for a few steps, almost colliding with Headmistress McGonagall.

“Gentlemen,” she said in greeting, addressing them both.

Draco faltered and felt Potter coming forward to stand beside him.

“Headmistress,” Potter said, his voice warm and fond in a way that Draco was nearly embarrassed to bear witness to. “We’re just coming from Potions.”

“Yes, I know,” McGonagall said. “I was hoping to catch you before your next class.”

McGonagall reached into the folds of her robes, drawing out out a rolled parchment and handing it to Potter.

“There is a matter of additional duties I need to ask our returning eighth year students to attend to. This is a rotation schedule that’s been drawn up for this term,” McGonagall said, gesturing to indicate the scroll in Potter’s hands.

“What exactly is it we’ll need to do?” Draco asked.

“I would like the eighth years to take up patrolling duties. There are parts of Hogwarts that aren’t fixed yet, and I need assistance to keep younger students out of these areas,” McGonagall explained. “This is too much for the Prefects and Head Boy and Girl to take on in addition to their typical duties. I also worry it’s too dangerous for the Prefects to handle. It’s a task for our more mature students, I think.”

Draco still felt very young in the presence of his former Transfiguration professor, no matter that he was eighteen and of the age of majority. A quick glance in Potter’s direction told Draco that he might be experiencing the same feeling.

“Wouldn’t this be something better suited for staff members?” Draco asked. McGonagall looked at him shrewdly over the edge of her glasses. “Only, we’re here to complete our N.E.W.T.s, not be commandeered to be a security measure.”

“That’s why this will be a patrol taken care of on a rotating schedule, Mr Malfoy,” she said, her stern tone brooking no argument. “That way you are only required to give up a few hours a handful of times throughout the year while repairs are being worked on. Surely you will be able to spare that time; after all, if I remember correctly you are beginning the year with the advantage of having already attended the majority of your required studies for seventh year requirements—an advantage that not all of your classmates are able to claim for themselves.”

Draco ducked his head, feeling scolded, and cleared his throat. “Of course, Headmistress.”

She surveyed them both and granted them a smile. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. And if I might add, it is encouraging to see the pair of you getting along. Keep setting an example for your peers.”

“We—well, it’s…I mean,” Potter fumbled his words and looked over to Draco.

“We will continue,” Draco agreed, smoothly speaking over whatever Potter was attempting to blunder through.

McGonagall nodded and gestured once more at the parchment she gave Potter. “Take this back to your dormitory and inform the others when you see them.”

She walked away, disappearing down the hall that led to the stone gargoyle where her office was located. Potter waited until she was gone before unfurling the scroll.

Draco grabbed a corner and pulled the list closer, reading over Potter’s shoulder. Draco hummed, seeing his name next to Potters in the first slot on the rota.

“More busy work,” Draco commented dryly. “How wonderful.”

Potter elbowed him half-heartedly. “You’ll survive, I’m sure. Besides, McGonagall said she needed help to keep the younger students safe.”

Draco eyed the list and shrugged one shoulder. “At least it’s only a handful of times per term.”

Potter hummed in response and rolled the parchment back up.

“Do you have another lesson today?” he asked.

“I have Ancient Runes during the last timetable block on the schedule,” Draco said.

“I’m done for the day. I’m going to head back to the eighth year apartment to pin this up,” Potter said, already walking away. “See you around.”

Draco put his hand back in his pocket and thumbed the charmed Galleon, watching Potter as he left.

*******

Harry was lost in his head while he was in the library with Ginny, Luna, Neville, and Hermione. It was something that kept happening; he would zone out and wander down a mental path until someone caught his attention and pulled him out of his whirlpool thoughts. A small part of him kept snagging on the thought that he could be out making a difference in the wizarding world instead of trapping himself in lessons; Kingsley even waived the required prerequisites if they had fought in the Battle. He mostly got himself stuck in those thoughts, like a stick in the mud, whenever he struggled with his lessons. He felt like his year on the run during the war altered his ability to focus on things like writing essays on the various properties of hellebore.

His other problem, when his attention drifted, was Malfoy.

Harry found himself looking for Malfoy everywhere. The thing was....Harry kept expecting him to do one thing—anything that he was used to Malfoy doing—but he would do another. He was alright to fly with, he helped Harry when he stumbled through Potions theory he didn’t understand, he even caught him offering a sweet sent by his mother to a younger Slytherin Malfoy talked with sometimes. He was like some fascinating specimen all over again that Harry couldn’t stop thinking about, constantly drawing Harry’s attention.

The main problem was that Harry didn’t _understand_ Malfoy the way he thought he had when he was sure that Malfoy was a spoiled arsehole who never had to face any of the consequences of his actions. An old, bitter pang lanced through him whenever he thought of fifth year, and not just because of Sirius’s death. But then…Malfoy had saved Harry and his friends when they were captured and brought to Malfoy Manor by Snatchers. Not in an outright way; Harry thought Malfoy probably wouldn’t be brave enough for grand gestures when his own life would be on the line. When Malfoy came closer he could barely look at Harry, his face swollen from Hermione’s hex. But then his eyes met Harry’s and Harry saw it then: Malfoy wanted to help, even in the face of danger, surrounded by a snake pit of Death Eaters and Voldemort’s imminent arrival.

“Harry, do you have the _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms_ text? I think it’s under your elbow,” Hermione said, breaking into Harry’s thoughts.

He startled slightly and looked around. Ginny and Hermione were looking at Harry expectantly. His eyes dropped to the short stack of books his elbow was resting on and he pushed them over to the girls. Harry blinked when he thought he caught a flash of gleaming blond hair turn down an aisle, but he scolded himself and reasoned that it was a trick of his mind, looking for someone when they weren’t there.

“Thanks,” Ginny said, pulling the book from the top of the pile and thumbing through it. She and Hermione bent back over their respective scrolls of parchment, muttering to each other.

Harry wiped his hand across his mouth, trying to blink his way back into awareness. He wasn’t sure how much time he lost to his thoughts. Luna smiled at him and reached out to pat the back of his other hand.

“Hey, Harry, what’s the counter-curse for a Tongue-Tying curse, again?” Neville asked, nudging him.

Harry gave Neville the answer automatically.

“Thanks, mate,” Neville said, scribbling down the answer in his notes.

Harry nodded and looked down at his own work. He frowned slightly and picked up his half-finished essay for Potions. He was meant to have three feet on the Draught of Peace potion and its practical applications by the end of the day. He barely remembered what he’d written so far, and didn’t exactly fancy struggling through the rest. His eyes slid around the table to each of his friends, diligently working and he pursed his lips in thought. Hermione loved academics, so coming back to school was the only choice for her; she liked doing things in their proper order, so before she could take the wizarding world by storm she had to complete her studies. Neville, on the other hand, never had to go on the run like some of them did and, even though his seventh year was unbearably unpleasant, he seemed to fit back into student life much easier than Harry was faring. It just seemed harder than Harry remembered it ever being, slipping back into being a student. His frustration soured the good spirits he had been in before, when he arrived at the library to spend time revising with his friends.

Sometimes Harry didn’t understand how his mood could swing so rapidly from joyful, carefree happiness to listless, directionless despondence. He wanted to talk to Hermione about it, but he also worried it would just set her off on yet another rant about Mind Healing and why Harry should be talking to a professional for help, rather than soldiering through depression and grief on his own. Hermione kept throwing around words like ‘ _post-traumatic stress disorder_ ’ and ‘ _survivor’s guilt_ ’ and it frightened Harry to have to address directly.

Harry chewed on his lip and half-heartedly wrote a few more sentences in his essay, sure that if Hermione read it over for him later her face would pull into that pinched look of disapproval for his stubborn inability to really comprehend what he was meant to be writing about. He could picture it now: her full lips would purse into a pout and a wrinkle would form between her brows that broadcast her exasperation. He could clearly hear her sad hum of, “Oh, Harry, I know you’re clever, so why do you put so little effort into your studies?”

His mouth quirked to the side, feeling a rush of affection for his best friend even while picturing her dressing down his essay efforts.

Luna and Ginny were murmuring to each other, the soft lilts of their voices bracketed by the quiet creak of the library and the scratching sound of quills dragging across parchment. Harry caught their conversation in snatches while he stared down at the nearly incomprehensible drivel he wrote thus far about the potion.

“The owl said that a scouting agent would attend a team practice, two of the season’s games, and the final match,” Ginny said.

“You’re magical on a broom,” Luna said, smiling at Ginny with confident sureness. “They’d be mad not to take notice.”

“Yeah, but Eloise Sanders is good, too. There’s other teams, but playing for the Harpies would really be a dream come true,” Ginny said with quiet determination. Harry still loved that about her, even though their time together burned hot and bright before it fizzled out and became clear they worked better as friends. Luna was a more suited match for her; they fit together in a way that Ginny hadn’t with her other romantic connections. After a brief pause, Ginny added, “It’s a women-only team.”

“Don’t make me jealous,” Luna chided, leaning close to nudge her nose against Ginny’s. “Wouldn’t it be a better measure of your skill if you played for a team that had women _and_ men playing for it? That would make more sense, statistically speaking.”

“The Harpies trounced the Canons and the Appleby Arrows two seasons in a row. They’re probably the best team in the league,” Harry said, cutting into their conversation.

Ginny shot him an appreciative look for his support and Harry smiled. He knew how much she wanted to fly for Holyhead.

“Well, in that case, I suppose I’d better order some team merchandise to prepare for your future,” Luna said decidedly.

Ginny swatted at her with a little gasp. “Don’t do that, you’ll jinx it! I just need to focus on practicing and making sure the team does well during the Quidditch season.”

“You’ll be brilliant; you’re an excellent captain,” Harry offered, filled with a tingling warmth over the pride he felt for his friends. “If Ginny’s dead set on playing Quidditch, what do you plan on doing, Luna?”

“Being a kept woman,” Ginny joked, planting a quick peck on Luna’s cheek. Luna flushed a pretty rosy colour and tucked a strand of wavy hair behind her ear, where her signature plum earrings dangled.

“I’ve been owling back and forth with a naturalist, actually. We’ve been making plans for an expedition through rainforests to search for unclassified creatures,” Luna said. “He’s the grandson of Newt Scamander, so you could say his family wrote the book on learning about misunderstood creatures. I’m trying to convince him that the Blibbering Humdinger could be found in the Amazon, according to evidence I’ve recently uncovered.”

“Wow, that’s…” Harry trailed off, his eyes sliding first to Ginny, and then to Hermione, whose eyebrows were creeping higher and higher onto her forehead while she stared resolutely at her work. “Yeah.”

Luna hummed and nodded, agreeing with Harry even though he wasn’t quite sure what he was trying to say about Luna’s plans. He gave her a supportive smile and set his quill down.

“What about you, Harry?” Neville asked. “Kingsley gave you that offer, didn’t he? The one from the Ministry?”

Harry swallowed and tried to shrug nonchalantly. He wasn’t sure he managed, feeling like it was a stilted, jerking movement.

“Well, yeah,” Harry said. “I…well, after talking it through with Ron and Hermione—because they got the offer, too—we thought it would be best to finish at Hogwarts first. It felt—it felt like the right choice rather than join up directly.”

Hermione hummed in agreement, not looking up from her parchment. She knew some of the reasons why Harry didn’t feel ready to go from fighting one group of Dark wizards to chasing them down for a living—not straight away, anyway.

“Do you still want to be an Auror?” Luna asked, tilting her head and looking at him in consideration. Despite Luna’s dreamy demeanor, she was able to read people excellently, and her eyes were knowing when she peered at him across the table.

“I—” Harry said. He wanted to answer, only— _did_ he actually want to be an Auror still? He wasn’t entirely sure. It was the plan from fifth year on; he liked Defense Against the Dark Arts the best, and Tonks and Kingsley were brilliant Aurors. Hell, if Voldemort had never risen to power his dad could have gone on to be an Auror, so in a way it was almost honouring the memory of him.

Whenever he pictured the future, it was blurry and he couldn’t decide on a path. He felt lost in a way, unsure of what the right choice was. Hogwarts was easy because it was a routine he could fall back into without having to worry about all the people watching to see where he might end up. He tried to picture himself in the scarlet red of the Auror uniform and it was fine, it was a fitting image, but the way it resonated with him was just slightly _off_ , and he couldn’t put his finger on _why_.

“I think so,” Harry decided on saying. “It’s why I’m taking the N.E.W.T. level subjects for Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology, and Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, scratching over his scalp and squeezing the back of his neck, feeling exposed despite the fact that these were his friends. They supported him and loved him, even if he had no idea what to do with his life now that his purpose was served. Sometimes, when Harry got sucked deeply into the maudlin feelings, he thought he should’ve just boarded a train rather than returning to be with the living.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Neville said, bumping his shoulder into Harry’s and interrupting Harry’s self-doubt. “I’ve got to repot the Fanged Geraniums for Professor Sprout. You could come with me, if you’d like, and help me.”

“Er, okay?” Harry’s voice ticked up with uncertainty. “Do you think Sprout would count it toward the assignment if I help you out?”

“Just come keep me company. It’s a nice way to have a think,” Neville said, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “I’ll put in a good word for you with Professor Sprout.”

“Yeah, alright, then,” Harry agreed. Some of the anxious tension bled from his shoulders and he began to pack his things up to leave. “I’m going to finish this back in the dorm. I’ll see you guys later.”

His friends gave him a chorus of goodbyes and Harry left the library, thinking once more about Kingsley’s appeal to him about needing a new crop of good Aurors to uphold the integrity of what the Ministry stood for. Harry agreed with him—he just wasn’t sure he qualified with the state his mind was in since the war ended.

*******

On his way back from the library, Harry paused outside of a classroom when he heard someone in it. The corridor he was walking through had sustained damage during the Battle, and was still in the process of being repaired by the castle’s latent magic. The three classrooms along the corridor weren’t being used during the term to hold lessons in.

Harry looked up and down the hallway before stepping closer to the doorway where the door was left ajar. He blinked rapidly in surprise when he saw who was occupying the room.

Malfoy looked rumpled; his shirt was untucked and his school robe was carelessly tossed over a discarded chair in one corner. He looked so different from his usually pristine, put together appearance. Harry tilted his head as he watched. A stray thought ran through his head that Malfoy looked more human this way; softer and more approachable, almost like something Harry could actually reach out and touch instead of the cold stone statue Harry normally thought of him as.

Malfoy had his wand in his hand, rolling the wood between his fingertips while his jaw worked. There was a streak of dust across his cheek and his hair, loose and free, stuck to his forehead where his hairline was darker with a light sheen of sweat. He liked it like that, without the awful product Malfoy used to tame it with. It helped soften his sharp edges and made Harry want to map them with his fingertips.

Harry wondered how long Malfoy had been in the room; from the state of him, it seemed he had been practicing for a while.

Abruptly, Malfoy spun and shot off a non-verbal Blasting Curse at a broken desk in the corner, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction when his spell destroyed the desk beyond repair. Harry’s eyebrows rose, impressed. He remembered when he first taught Malfoy how to master Blasting Curses back in the D.A., and how he had initially struggled because of his wand grip.

Malfoy turned back to the open space that faced the window and took a deep breath, blowing it out between his parted lips. Harry’s eyes tracked the way Malfoy drew his wand arm up and took another breath before casting: _Expecto Patronum!_

A burst of protective magic rushed from the tip of Malfoy’s wand, but before it formed into a corporeal form it churned into a wispy white cloud and then dissipated.

Malfoy gusted out an annoyed sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He tried again; and again. Each time, he could only manage little more than a beginner’s level of the Patronus Charm.

Harry watched while Malfoy grew continuously more frustrated each time he failed to produce a full Patronus.

Harry wondered how long Malfoy had been having this problem. Malfoy had never told him when he finally got it right, but he knew Malfoy was capable. Harry had seen it from afar, during the Battle, when Dementors were closing in on a young student who stayed to fight instead of escaping to safety. Harry had nearly got hit by a curse from the Death Eater he was duelling because Harry was too caught up looking at the silvery fox take form to pay attention. He remembered the way his breath caught in his throat at the sight of it: tail bushy and fangs bared fiercely as it charged the Dementor, driving it back and standing guard in front of the student where she quivered.

Harry didn’t interrupt Malfoy, just observed, and while he stood there, half hidden by the shadow of the partially open door, something sparked to life in him that had felt dormant for far too long.

Before he could be noticed, Harry crept back from the doorway. As he quietly continued down the corridor, Harry decided he should keep a closer eye on Malfoy and considered different reasons for why Malfoy’s fox form would refuse to cooperate when Malfoy called on it.

As he trudged up a staircase, all he could picture was the expression on Malfoy’s face after the fourth or fifth time Harry saw him cast. It was simultaneously determined and defeated and it made something in Harry feel like it cracked open and melted out through his limbs.

His own future might feel cloudy and uncertain, but he knew he was good at helping people and, if Malfoy let him, Harry would help him gain back proper control over his Patronus.

Harry felt a renewed sense of purpose chasing away the melancholy that he’d been struggling against from the start of term, driving away the dark feelings that crept up on him and stole away his happy moments. It burned bright and hot inside him and he couldn’t keep a grin from unfurling as he reached the eighth year dormitory.

*******

Harry was still thinking about Malfoy’s predicament when he went to meet Neville in Greenhouse Two. He peeled his scarf off and hung it on a hook by the door when he came in, nodding to Neville.

The Fanged Geraniums were lined up on the bench, some of them looking a little ridiculous in their pots because they were rapidly outgrowing them.

“This batch was started from seedlings just before the term started; I came early every day to help Pomona get them ready,” Neville said conversationally, handing a pair of work gloves to Harry.

Neville set down a trowel and his wand on the worktable and lifted one of the potted plants up to examine it. The Fanged Geranium unfurled its leafy stem when Neville stroked a finger up and down it, curling a budding offshoot around Neville’s finger and leaning toward him like he was the sun.

“It’s just these ones that are ready to be relocated to bigger pots. There’s more we’re growing, but they’re not quite ready yet,” Neville explained. He picked up his wand and Summoned a fresh empty pot from the shelves behind them.

“Why can’t you just expand the pots they’re already in?” Harry asked, mildly curious while he watched Neville work.

Neville reached over to a bag of soil and levitated a clump of it into the empty pot before him, making a bed for the Fanged Geranium to sit on. “Doesn’t hold up over time. Plus, it really messes with the magical plants and makes their growing go all wonky. Professor Sprout told me of a time when one of her classmates in Herbology did that as a shortcut and woke up the next morning with a giant Venomous Tentacula on his hands.”

Neville laughed, as if being faced with an oversized venomous plant was a great joke.

“Er, wow,” Harry said. “Wild.”

“Yeah,” Neville agreed, still chuckling. “Here,” he added, pulling over another plant and set it in front of Harry. “Summon the pots, fill them about halfway so that the Fanged Geraniums aren’t swimming in their new homes, and then you just need to gently work your fingers around the plants and lift them into the fresh pot. Once you’ve got them situated, you can fill in the soil around them to fill in the gaps. Make sure they sit up straight, or they get grumpy and tend to nip at your fingers for it.”

“Right,” Harry said, turning to face the plant Neville gave him to work with. “Nev, can their fangs get through these gloves?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been bitten by one,” Neville said absently.

Harry watched Neville coax his Fanged Geranium out of its too-small pot and gingerly place it in the new one. The flower’s petals seemed to trill, quivering in pleasure while Neville filled in the gaps around the base with dirt, keeping one finger curled supportively around the base of the stem to keep the flower upright. It didn’t look too hard, Harry reasoned, turning back to his plant once more.

Harry didn’t feel as sure as Neville when handling magical plants. He did well enough with non-sentient ones, like the plants he tended to in Aunt Petunia’s prized garden, but he followed Neville’s instructions. His Fanged Geranium seemed to be looking up at him in the same way a drooping basset hound might, wilting slightly. Harry was sure if it could make a sound it would make a pitiful whine. He reached out, hesitating for a second, and tried to replicate the stroking motion Neville had done. Harry perked up, his lips quirking up when his flower nuzzled affectionately against his finger.

“It likes you,” Neville observed with a wry expression. “Careful there; they’re clingers if you give them an inch.”

Harry looked back down and saw one of the leafy arms twined around his finger.

“Er—come on, into your new home,” Harry tried, feeling slightly awkward talking to a plant that probably couldn’t understand him. Neville made an amused sound beside him while Harry found a hand shovel and scooped some fresh dirt into the empty pot before him.

Harry gently worked his fingers into the soil surrounding his plant and felt his smile lift when it wrapped its leaves around him more firmly and helped Harry tug it free from the old pot. Harry cupped the plant between his fingers and guided it into the new pot. The flower wobbled once and Harry steadied it, flinching when it snapped its jaws at him in warning.

“Well done, Harry,” Neville praised, only partially looking at Harry while his hands continued to re-pot the flowers. He already had two more done while Harry was still on his first.

Harry held the flower still while he levitated the fresh soil into place around the sides. When he was finished, the flower stood proud at its full height, nearly coming to Harry’s navel. Harry smiled down at it, petting the stem once more and carefully brushing the petals. The Fanged Geranium waved like it swayed in a breeze, contracting and expanding the petals around its flower face.

“You’ve made a friend, I think,” Neville said.

“Shut up,” Harry responded, his tone light. “As if every plant at Hogwarts isn’t in your pocket.”

“Well,” Neville conceded, shrugging. “I don’t mind sharing.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. He reached for another plant and re-homed another flower.

They worked in easy, companionable silence intermittently broken by small talk and jokes. Harry ended up really enjoying working with his hands, finding the activity to be soothing to his frazzled mind.

“Hey, Nev,” Harry said when they were nearly finished. Neville turned to him and hummed inquisitively. “Do you think—I mean...well, if it wouldn’t be a bother…”

“Out with it, Harry,” Neville prodded.

“Right, er…do you think you could let me know if you need an extra hand again?” Harry asked, cheeks feeling inexplicably hot.

Neville grinned at him and reached over to clap him on the shoulder, sending a clod of dirt flying and leaving a smudge of damp dirt on Harry’s flannel. “Of course, Harry.”

Neville picked up his wand and spelled away the soil on Harry’s shoulder. “You know, this greenhouse won’t be used for lessons, so you could just come here whenever you want to spend some time with the plants again.”

“Oh?” Harry asked, hoping his interest in the offer didn’t seem too obvious. It sounded nice, escaping to the greenhouse when it all got to be too much. He felt better after an hour spent with his hands in the fresh soil than he had in the last several days, his mood finally lifting from the dour one he’d grappled with most of the week. “Yeah, I just might.”

Neville removed his gloves and wiped his hands on his trousers after tossing the gloves onto the workbench. “I’m going to go. I told Luna I would help her test out some charms she’s been working on. She wants to use them to cheer for Ginny during Quidditch matches.”

“See you,” Harry said absently. His fingers were being wrapped up by the flowers once more. “I’ll, er, be up in a bit,” he added, tipping his head toward the plants in indication. “I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

Neville snorted and shook his head. He grabbed his coat and school robe from the hook and waved to Harry as he left.

Harry shifted his attention back to the Fanged Geraniums rubbing against his hands and huffed out a soft laugh.

*******

Draco didn’t really want to go to Hogsmeade, but Blaise and Pansy were relentless. He crossed his arms and draped himself across his bed, just barely resisting acting childish and burying his face in his pillow.

Pansy stood over him, hands on her hips, and Draco wanted to tell her she looked just like her mother—but that would only throw her into a snit.

Blaise was sitting on the edge of his own bed, the one next to Draco’s, while he made his case for why Draco had to join them.

“We’re all going, you lazy lump,” Blaise reasoned. “You’d be the only one staying. You, and the ickle firsties and second years who don’t have permission to go.”

Draco groaned and threw his arm over his eyes. “I just don’t want to go; why does this even need to be a discussion?”

“Oh, just get up off your sad arse and stop _moping_ ,” Pansy snapped. She leaned over him and poked him. “You’ve done all your revision work and completed your assignments—don’t argue with me, I know you did, you little swot—so you’re just going to sit around the castle all day. Get up and get ready.”

Draco lifted his arm to give her an affronted stare. “Pansy, what the hell has got—”

“ _Get up_ ,” she repeated fiercely, her eyes flashing. “We are eighteen and we deserve to just have a normal day visiting Hogsmeade. So the three of us are going to go down there, look in the shops, have a drink to warm us up at the Three Broomsticks, and have a grand time acting our age. I’ve seen that haunted look you get when you don’t think anyone is watching you. It’s depressing, Draco. We just want you to have some fun.”

She huffed when she finished and perched on the edge of his bed, squeezing his leg briefly.

Draco sat still and let a few seconds tick by; if he was going to give into them, he wasn’t going to just jump up and follow them like a well trained dog. Finally, he scoffed under his breath and rolled into a seated position, running his fingers over his hair. He winced when he pulled at a snag and brushed his hand through his hair until it was smooth.

“Fine,” Draco said wearily, as if he were being marched to his own funeral. “But don’t expect me to enjoy myself much. Hogsmeade is filthy.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, though her irritation had softened once he agreed.

“Here, this’ll help,” Blaise said, offering a small flask he pulled from an inside pocket.

Draco took it with a raised eyebrow, bringing it to his nose to sniff. _Firewhisky_. Draco slid his eyes over to Blaise.

“It is ten in the morning,” Draco said.

Blaise shrugged, unrepentant; a smile played at the corners of his mouth. “A sip won’t kill you. It’s fortifying.”

Pansy took the flask from Draco before he could say anything else and took a sip for herself, pinching her face at the taste and blowing a smoky breath out after she swallowed. She offered it back to him and Draco took it.

He eyed both of his friends as he brought the flask to his lips, pausing before tossing back a mouthful. He pursed his lips together at the burn of alcohol as it seared through his throat. Smoke curled out of his nostrils and he tipped his head back to blow a smoke ring out.

“Alright. Let’s go be wildlings in Hogsmeade and drive the shop owners mad,” Draco said, watching his smoke ring dissipate.

Pansy clapped her hands together while Draco stood. Blaise took his flask back and tucked it away, patting his pocket and smirking at Draco. It made him wonder how often Blaise was hitting his flask if he’d taken to carrying it around with him and a frisson of worry worked its way through him. He knew they all had their ways of coping with what they went through, but it unsettled him.

Pansy pulled out a scarf for him from his trunk while Draco shrugged into his robes and used his wand to smooth out the wrinkles in his clothes. In short order they were on their way and left the castle to follow the road to Hogsmeade.

Draco saw clusters of other students on the path ahead of him; they were laughing and some of the younger ones were playfully shoving one another. Draco saw Parvati Patil shooting ribbons from her wand that twisted Hannah Abbott’s hair into a plait, the shining purple ribbon twined into the braid. The girls giggled when Boot, Finch-Fletchley, and Goldstein joined them.

Ahead of them, Draco saw Finnigan and Thomas shooting each other furtive looks and walking so closely to one another that they kept bumping together. Draco raised his eyebrows in surprise; they weren’t being subtle at all, completely out in the open where anyone could see them. Still watching, Draco felt a tingle of warmth bloom in his chest when Finnigan took Thomas’s hand in his own and held onto it the rest of the walk to the village.

Draco tensed when they drew near the main road, expecting his experience in Hogsmeade to be just like Diagon Alley. He tipped his nose into the air and stood straighter to give off a proud aura that would, hopefully, deter anyone from crossing him.

Blaise wove his way through Gladrags and bought himself a new hat for the winter when Scotland started to get colder. Pansy got lost in the bookshop, and when Draco found her after nearly an hour she was sitting on a tufted ottoman in a back corner with a small pile of books around her and one open on her lap. Draco made an amused, affectionate sound and scooped up her books, urging her from the store.

“Didn’t you say we couldn’t stay hidden away all day?” Draco asked as her books were rung up at the till. She shrugged primly and tucked her hand into Draco’s elbow when he offered it to her.

In Honeydukes, they ran into more of a crowd. Draco saw Lovegood and Weasley’s sister selecting floating sherbet balls and a handful of fellow eighth years cramming between the third through seventh year students crowding into the sweet shop to get their fix of sugar. Draco selected a box of nougat and some toffee for himself. He bumped into a younger girl on his way to pay and froze when she shot him a dirty look. After a beat, her face eased and she skirted around him and found a friend she knew. Draco relaxed in minute increments.

He held himself stiffly all morning, expecting the people in Hogsmeade to say something unsavoury to him, but once they reached the Three Broomsticks he began to settle down and enjoy himself. It was completely different than his summer trips to Diagon Alley had been.

The Three Broomsticks was flush with people when Draco and his friends entered.

Blaise glanced around for an open table to sit and Finnigan spotted the three of them. He gave a sharp shout that made Draco want to flinch, but he held himself steady at the last minute. Finnigan’s cheeks were pink and flushed, his eyes bright, and he was waving to them.

“Oi! _Oi_ , over here!” Finnigan said, voice carrying over the din in the pub. “C’mon, over ‘ere.”

Draco blinked and cast a sidelong glance at Pansy. “Is he…?”

“He is,” Pansy confirmed. She waited a beat and then began to weave her way through the full tables to the large one in the corner that, apparently, the entirety of the other eighth years had commandeered. Finnigan cheered when she reached the table, trailed by Blaise and Draco.

There were tankards of ale and Butterbeer taking up half the space on the table, Honeydukes sweet wrappers, and half-finished bowls of Rosmerta’s lamb stew. The group carried on conversations with each other and with the table at large; some of their cheeks were pink, like Finnigan’s, and others had bright, glassy eyes. Draco surmised that they had been there for a while before he, Pansy, and Blaise arrived.

Weasley had a lanky arm around Granger’s shoulder, his fingers brushing against her elbow absently as they conversed. Potter was on Granger’s other side and laughing with Longbottom, his face open in a way that made Draco’s stomach tighten. Draco’s eyes traveled over him quickly and decided he looked slovenly with his Muggle attire: there was a wool flannel tied around his waist and his denim jacket hung on the back of his chair. Potter caught sight of them mid-laugh and brought his hand up in an approximation of a wave in greeting.

“May we join you?” Draco asked, his voice marble, unable to shake years of aristocratic etiquette training.

Potter nodded, his eyes big behind his spectacles. They weren’t as glazed as some of the others at the table, but they still made Draco feel too hot in his own skin the way they tracked him while he sat across the table from Potter, next to Padma and Parvati Patil.

“Another round!” Finnigan cried heartily, waving a nearly empty flagon overhead and blinking in surprise when a slosh of ale spilled onto his head.

Pansy shot him a look from where she tucked herself between Boot and Goldstein and Draco saw the infinitesimal twitch of her eyebrow. Draco’s mouth pursed in response and they both turned in time to see Thomas clean Finnigan up with his wand. Finnigan’s attention immediately zeroed in on Thomas; they were looking at each other with such softness that Draco had to tear his eyes away.

He ended up meeting Potter’s gaze by chance. Potter’s eyes drifted over to Finnigan and Thomas for a second, and then flit back to Draco. He tilted his head and a lock of his dark hair fell forward over his brow.

Madame Rosmerta came up to the table. “You all look in high spirits,” she said, sweeping a warm smile over their group. “Can I bring anyone more stew or another round of drinks?”

“You could join us,” Blaise murmured silkily. She was standing right beside his chair and he was peering up at her with open adoration. She huffed an amused laugh and patted his shoulder.

“I’ve a pub to run, dear,” Rosmerta said.

“Take a break,” Blaise said. He covered her hand with his while he flirted with her.

“I’ll take your order and that’ll be all,” Rosmerta said with a wry twist to her lips.

Draco snorted in amusement. “I’ll have a Butterbeer.”

A chorus of orders sounded from the others and Rosmerta left them to it. Shortly after she reappeared with a horde of floating drinks behind her, doling them out to each of the eighth years.

Draco sipped his warm Butterbeer and licked the foam from his lip. When he glanced up, Potter’s eyes were on him again. Draco watched him from over the lip of his pewter tankard and, to his surprise, Potter’s eyes drifted back to him often. Potter checked out the Patil twins and Pansy, eyes lingering on her lips as she spoke, but then he also noticed Blaise and Thomas and Finnigan. Draco tried to pay attention to his conversation with Padma, but when his eyes caught Potter’s on him for the third time in the span of five minutes he felt a flush creep up his neck that wasn’t entirely from his drink. He could barely believe that Potter was being so…open and obvious with his attention—and not just on the girls, but on the fit boys in the room, too. Draco didn’t know what it meant, but it made his insides twist in anticipation and excitement.

Despite his initial reluctance to go to Hogsmeade, Draco ended up having an enjoyable time—even with an afternoon spent in the company of the other eighth years. By his third round he was feeling loose and pleasant, propping his chin in his hand while it leaned on the table.

“I’m not kidding,” Granger said with faux graveness, the corners of her mouth twitching. “It’s a procedure where they’ve got to remove four of your teeth that don’t grow in until you’ve reached adulthood. If they aren’t removed, they’ll burst through your gums and, and…”

She couldn’t finish her sentence before she dissolved into snickering laughter against Weasley’s shoulder while the rest of the wizard-raised people at the table stared at her in horror. Draco clutched one hand over his chest and Pansy cupped her cheeks protectively.

Granger got control of herself and sat up. “Why? How does St Mungo’s handle basic tooth health?”

“Not as barbarically as that,” Blaise said. “Muggles are…” Blaise trailed off and several people at the table stiffened. Draco saw Potter’s jaw clench and prepared for the pleasant afternoon to go to shit. “…made of hearty stuff,” Blaise finished, blinking at the way everyone relaxed in unison. “I would piss my pants if I had to undergo something like that the Muggle way.”

“It’s not so bad,” Granger said diplomatically. “They give you a…potion, essentially, and it makes you forget it even happened.”

The conversations split off into individual ones for a short while before they were all pulled back in by Pansy.

“I think we should have another party,” she announced. The group murmured their assent. “Finnigan?” He perked up, his attention whipping around from making moon eyes at Thomas. “You’re in charge of planning it.”

“Brilliant,” Finnigan agreed, holding his tankard up to clink with an invisible one in a toast. Ale sloshed over the side and slopped onto the table. “We’ll have it before the term ends.”

“Best get to planning then, chap, it’s already November,” Blaise pointed out. Finnigan blinked owlishly and sat up straighter, acting as if this was vital information he was just learning of. Blaise snickered and raised a glass to him in silent toast. “We have faith in you.”

Finnigan grinned wide and Thomas leaned heavily against his side with a happy expression of his own.

Draco glanced around at their group and couldn’t deny the pleasant flutter in his own chest that made him feel light and carefree. There was so much on his mind as of late between his Patronus refusing to cooperate, dealing with the mud on his family name, and studying for his N.E.W.T.s that it felt nice to not have to focus on any of those things for a short while and just let himself be eighteen with his peers.

He was glad Pansy and Blaise dragged him to Hogsmeade.

On the return trip to the castle the eighth years walked together in a group. There was an air of rowdiness and camaraderie by the end of the day. Pansy allowed herself to be escorted by Goldstein and Blaise even had an arm slung around Finnigan to help Thomas support his stumbling steps.

Draco ended up falling into step beside Potter in the middle of the group. Their hands bumped together when Finnigan overcorrected and made their trio feint in Potter’s direction. Draco kept peeking at him out of the corner of his eye, his gaze traveling over Potter’s messy mop of hair, his darker, warm toned skin, and the broad set of his shoulders now that he was filling out again after being so frail and practically skeletal at the end of the war. He couldn’t deny that Potter was alluring. There was always something about him that drew Draco’s attention as if they were connected by the invisible loops of bonding magic around every part of his body, tiny golden lassos cinched around his neck and wrists and ankles demanding he be tied to Potter, making him unable to ever ignore Potter.

When Potter’s green eyes flickered to the side and met Draco’s, Draco jerked and snapped his gaze forward, cheeks prickling with the heat of being caught out. Potter’s warm chuckle wrapped around Draco and made him go slightly breathless. He could feel the shift in the air—he was entirely too aware of Potter’s body and its proximity to his—when Potter tucked his hands into his denim jacket.

Draco tucked his nose into the folds of his scarf and said nothing. Potter’s elbow brushed his. Draco’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth; he could still taste the lingering flavour of Butterbeer and wondered if it would taste the same on Potter’s tongue.

The castle was just ahead, but the last leg of the walk felt like it took forever; the whole time, Draco felt like the world faded to just him and Potter.

*******

Harry turned a corner with Malfoy by his side. They were on their second patrol for McGonagall, strolling their designated section of the castle with eyes peeled for younger students out of bounds. They were nearing the end of the patrol, when the portraits took over for the night, their frames spelled to buzz to wake them up from their slumber if anyone underage walked through.

They spoke occasionally on the patrol, but it remained superficial. Harry thought they had made some progress after the Hogsmeade trip, even though they didn’t speak very much directly, but it seemed Malfoy was still holding him at arm’s length for some reason.

Their footsteps echoed off the flagstone floors, Harry’s a muted whisper from the rubber soles of his trainers and Malfoy’s a rhythmic click from his dragon hide boots.

Harry was in the middle of debating whether he had the energy in him or not to finish the assignment for Charms when Malfoy’s voice interrupted his musings.

“Is it just me?” he blurted, not elaborating.

Harry angled his head to look at him curiously. “…Is what you?”

In the flickering dim light cast off from the sconces left on the wall—half of them blasted away by curses and still only half reformed by the castle—Harry could make out the drawn look on Malfoy’s face that Harry was pretty sure meant he was embarrassed.

Malfoy hitched his shoulder up in a jerky motion. He flapped a hand at the stretch of wall they were passing, where there was once a stone balcony that let out to a parapet. Now it was a crumbling hole that let in a draft.

“Affected by the state of things. That the castle is still—like this,” Malfoy said, halting and stiff. His voice was strained and Harry thought he sounded…sad.

Harry glanced out at the hole punched into the side of the castle. Whenever he tried to think directly about the events of the Battle, his mind clanged down like an iron gate slamming closed.

“It’s not just you,” Harry said.

They both paused while peering at an alcove just past the rubble of the balcony. The stones there pulsed and moved together, looking almost as if they were bubbling and shifting in the same way that the brick partition behind the Leaky Cauldron did. The castle was slowly knitting itself back together, healing the deep wounds inflicted on it by the war and the Battle and setting itself back to rights. The first time Harry saw it fixing itself, he’d been so startled by it that he tripped over Hermione in his haste to get away. She told to him that the castle was practically a living thing with magic infused into every last stone. Harry listened, fascinated, while she explained to him that Hogwarts began slowly repairing itself the morning after the Battle.

Harry and Malfoy were transfixed in silence while the alcove reshaped itself to form a ledge to sit on.

“It’s—it’s sort of weird,” Harry conceded when they began walking by silent agreement. “I mean, I have a wizarding house, but it’s…different? The castle is on another level completely.”

Malfoy hummed, distracted. “The magic here is old.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “It’s amazing that it can sort itself out on its own, without needing people to come fix it. It’s just strange to watch it actually happen. Is that what you meant?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said.

They reached the end of the corridor they were patrolling, leading back into the main stretch of the fourth floor. After the first patrol, they had returned to the common room together. Malfoy seemed to hold himself bow-tight and Harry sensed that he might be waiting for Harry to leave before he slipped off somewhere on his own. Harry chewed on the inside of his lip, determined not to let Malfoy just wander around the castle on his own at night.

“Well, that’s our last patrol until spring term,” Harry said. “Maybe after the holidays the castle will be in even better shape.”

“Maybe,” Malfoy echoed, his eyes refusing to look directly at Harry.

“Right…I’m going to head back to the dorm, then,” Harry said. “Are you coming?”

“In a bit,” Malfoy said. “I have an assignment for Astronomy, so I was going to spend some time on the Tower.”

“Suit yourself,” Harry said, waving as he turned away. Once he was sufficiently out of sight, he dug in his robe pocket to pull out his Invisibility Cloak and swung it over his head.

He followed Malfoy to the classroom Malfoy used to practice in before when Harry first discovered him. He crept inside carefully, avoiding the small chalky piles of crumbling detritus so that he wouldn’t make a sound. Harry settled himself in the corner and watched for several minutes while Malfoy tried to conjure his Patronus again, still to no avail. Harry considered him with a critical eye, his lips pursed in thought for what the problem could be. His gaze lingered on Malfoy’s fingers, nearly white-knuckled on the hilt of his wand by the third try. He didn’t really think the problem was the wand, or even the grip, but he knew that hold wasn’t exactly lending itself in Malfoy’s favour.

Harry stealthily slipped back out into the hall and stowed his Cloak away in his robe pocket once more. He made some noise in the hall so that he wouldn’t completely startle Malfoy and hovered in the open doorway.

“You’re holding your wand too tightly,” Harry said; an echo of memory from the strange year they shared somewhat of a civilized friendship before they were torn apart on opposite sides of a war bubbled up in his head.

Malfoy spun to face him, his face dark and drawn. He almost looked like Snape, Harry thought for a brief, wild second, just barely holding back a snort at the absurdity.

“What are you doing here?” Malfoy asked defensively. His fingers flexed on his wand. “I thought you said you were going back to the dormitory.”

Harry shrugged and walked into the classroom, glancing around as if it were his first time seeing it. “I ran into Nearly Headless Nick on the way back and we were catching up. I heard you in here when he left, so I came to see what the noise was.”

Malfoy jutted his chin out and narrowed his eyes.

Harry’s attention drifted down to the way he was squeezing his wand. At the Trials during the summer, Harry had given Malfoy back his wand and thanked him without elaborating on why. He never said to his face that he believed Malfoy helped them escape that day by giving over the wands. Harry knew, somehow, that if he spelled that out for Malfoy that he would deny it vehemently, just because he liked to be contrary with Harry, even when he could be claiming to any journalist that would listen that he was a secret hero of the war for his actions.

“You were trying to cast your Patronus, but it didn’t answer to you,” Harry said. “But I know you can do it; I’ve seen your fox before.”

Malfoy sucked in a sharp breath and met his gaze evenly. His eyes seemed mercurial in the way they swirled with things Harry couldn’t decipher.

“When did it stop working?” Harry asked, keeping his tone gentle and quiet.

Malfoy’s throat convulsed, the tendons sticking out for a brief moment. At length, he finally admitted in a rasping voice: “I’ve…been worried that my wand is loyal to you now.”

Without saying a word, Harry held out his hand and took Malfoy’s wand. Malfoy’s fingers tensed for a second, but Harry kept his face open and raised his eyebrows earnestly, silently asking for permission. Malfoy sighed and pulled his hand back to his side as if his wand seared his palm. Harry could just make out the way he pinched the fabric of his trousers between his thumb and forefinger until his fingertips turned white.

Harry cast his Patronus, watching as his stag sprung into being and trotted around the room. It came to a stop next to Malfoy and nudged at him with its nose. This didn’t seem to do anything to set Malfoy at ease; his eyes went painfully wide and wild, looking from Harry to his Patronus and back again.

Harry sighed out a brief, “ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” and offered Malfoy’s wand back to him, laying his palm open and flat so that it was easy for Malfoy to snatch back up.

“Try again,” Harry instructed.

Malfoy’s jaw worked while he brandished his wand in his hands. He shot Harry another indecipherable look—something that seemed to be full of heat and ice all at once—and took an uneven breath before he moved his arm in the familiar pattern.

Harry watched him critically.

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

A bright burst of protective magic surged from Malfoy’s wand, but he still only managed a wispy form before it flickered out. They both kept their eyes on the last spot the faint cloud of magic occupied before it disappeared. Malfoy’s shoulders were set so stiffly that Harry worried if he knocked him over he would shatter. He looked deeply uncomfortable.

“I don’t think it’s your wand,” Harry said into the silence.

Malfoy looked at him in profile, one eyebrow arching high and delicate. “Oh?”

“If it were your wand, you wouldn’t be able to cast that at all,” Harry elaborated, gesturing where the silvery cloud of protective Patronus magic had ended up. “So, since you can still cast at least the basic version of the Charm, I don’t think the problem is with your wand.”

Malfoy’s breath gusted out of him; his shoulders fell infinitesimally. Harry ventured a guess that he had been hoping it was a matter of wand loyalty—it was an easier problem to solve than a problem with one’s own magical core.

“It could be a mental block,” Harry wondered aloud, casting an assessing glance at Malfoy to see how he would take that. In his mind, Hermione’s voice reminded him of the importance of Mind Healers. “Hermione says after—after strenuous events that the mind can be affected. She’s read all these case studies from St Mungo’s where wizards and witches couldn’t access their magic properly…certain spells, even, after they’d been through traumatic things, like surviving a magic fire.”

Malfoy made a faint sound of acknowledgement, still staring at Harry cautiously, but he seemed to calm down from his earlier anxiety that Harry might be the true master of his wand.

“And why did Granger read up on these things?” Malfoy asked. “Other than the fact that she just enjoys knowledge for the sake of it,” he added before Harry could actually answer.

Harry swallowed, feeling uncomfortably raw around the edges. If he admitted the reason out loud to Malfoy, then it meant he was actually going to address it directly; it meant he would have to listen to Hermione and consider her advice the next time she suggested he see a Mind Healer.

“Er…for me,” Harry said lowly, as if being quiet about it might help. He ran his hand over the back of his neck in a self-conscious gesture, trying to soothe himself. Malfoy blinked and took a step closer, tilting his head and peering at Harry with a new curiosity in his eyes. Harry’s mouth opened again, and more spilled out, despite not making the conscious decision to continue. “I’ve been struggling with nightmares. Since, er. Since—that night. I had this connection, and I did actually—er—” Harry paused and adjusted his glasses with a crooked finger. “My magic isn’t going wonky, like yours, but Hermione keeps throwing psychological words at me and trying to get me to read about Muggle soldiers that return from war, or people that have survived terrorist attacks and the like. She thinks the brain is a really fragile thing, so what we went through…it could be causing a mental block for you.”

When Harry finished, he cleared his throat and licked his lips, feeling parched and exposed. Even with how frequently he turned to Ron and Hermione for support, after everything, this was the most Harry had thought about these things without shying away from them with doubt. He wasn’t sure why, but somehow he felt he could talk about it easier with Malfoy, after seeing through his mental connection with Voldemort what a terror it must have been to live in Malfoy Manor—especially when Malfoy never took the Mark and wasn’t involved. Perhaps it was because he offered a different perspective to Harry’s view of the world, or maybe it was just that they were different sides of the same coin.

Malfoy made an inquisitive sound and turned away, idly playing with his bottom lip and pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. He angled his head back to Harry and took another step closer.

“It’s funny, I’d never considered—well, it’s not something that’s talked about, not in the circles I was raised in,” Malfoy said, veering off halfway through his sentence into another. He pulled a reluctant face, but squared his shoulders. “Do you think you might help me work through it? Maybe with your perspective I could cast my Patronus again, like when you helped me in fifth year.”

Harry blinked. “Er—sure, yeah,” he agreed.

Harry held his hand out for Malfoy to take. Malfoy glanced down at it for a long beat before grasping Harry’s palm in his, shaking it with a firm pump. Malfoy caught and held Harry’s gaze, his palm still warm against Harry’s, and the moment lingered. Harry’s heart sped up for no discernible reason and Harry’s lips parted. Malfoy’s grey eyes flickered for the briefest second—and then he stepped back and the moment broke.

“Why don’t we head back to the dorm for the night and we can work out when we should meet up later,” Harry offered, gesturing with his thumb to the door.

Malfoy hummed in agreement and gathered his discarded robe. Together they left the classroom and walked back to the eighth year dormitory.

*******

Harry, Hermione, and Ron were in Greenhouse Two a few days later. Ron and Hermione joined him to keep him company while he spent time with the various plants.

Harry had his gardening gloves off and was laughing while the thin vines of a young Fanged Geranium wound around his bare fingers, tickling the skin in between with gentle brushes as if they were feelers on a bug. Ron and Hermione were seated on either side of Harry on the low bench. Hermione had her mass of hair swept up into a messy bun, the spirals frizzing with the humidity in the greenhouse and pulling free from the hold of her elastic. Ron had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, baring his freckled arms.

One of the plants in a pot near Ron’s elbow was unfurling a leafy stem to touch the faded scars on his arm from the Department of Mysteries. Ron blinked and looked down at the flower.

“I think it thinks you have vines, too,” Harry suggested, picking up the flower to move it to a bigger pot. He had almost completely taken over Neville’s repotting duties for Professor Sprout while she and Neville and a few other Herbology-minded students with green thumbs focused on other projects. “You match.”

Ron snorted and shook his head with a rueful grin, pulling out a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. He tossed them in the air and caught each one on his mouth, making outrageous faces at the ones that were off tasting. Harry held his mouth open for Ron to toss him one every so often, grumbling through chewing when one was soap flavoured.

Hermione had her nose in a book and didn’t notice the way the other Fanged Geraniums kept looking at her hair and puffing out their petals. She turned a page, unaware of the attention the flowers were granting her.

Harry murmured to the plants as he worked, ignoring the cooing noises Ron was making at him to tease Harry for how soft he was with the plants. Harry finished moving another flower and wiped his hands together briefly to dispel the soil from them. Ron puckered his lips at Harry once more and held his fingers up around his face in an imitation of the flower petals.

Harry pulled a face and shot a wandless Stinging Hex at his foot, grinning unrepentantly when Ron barked out a flabbergasted, “Oi!”

“S’what you get for being a prat,” Harry said, shrugging. His palm still crackled with the static-y feel of his magic and he rubbed his fingers to dispel the excess energy flowing from his core.

Ron rubbed at his foot. His gaze slid to Hermione, and Harry figured he was assessing whether or not to try to entreaty her to his side. Harry sidestepped and blocked Hermione from Ron’s view, raising his eyebrows in a silent challenge.

“I won’t be getting you out of that, Ronald,” Hermione said, not even looking up from her book. “Fight your own battles when you bicker with each other.”

Harry threw a smug look at Ron and laughed at the way Ron pouted dejectedly.

“Why don’t you help me out?” Harry suggested, his indignation at Ron’s teasing melting away. He Summoned a stack of empty pots to sit in front of Ron.

“Yeah, alright,” Ron said agreeably. He swiveled on the bench to move the plants to bigger pots, using his wand to complete most of the steps, while Harry preferred to actually put his hands in the dirt.

Their company was as comforting to him as his newfound enjoyment of the plants. While Harry and Ron repotted plants the three of them fell into another serene silence. Harry let his mind drift while his fingers wiggled through the potting soil.

The year was going faster than Harry expected it to—it was already past the midway point of the fall term. Before Harry knew it, his last year at Hogwarts would be over for good, and he would be forced to move on, to really do something with his life.

He thought once more of Kingsley’s need for good Aurors in the DMLE at the Ministry, and this time when he imagined himself in the uniform robes the image was a clearer one, more solid around the edges.

Harry continued to let his mind wander aimlessly while he gardened, enjoying the familiar presence of his two best friends at his side. Hermione made thoughtful sounds under her breath every time she read something she found interesting, her fingertips tapping against the edges of the book. Ron hummed a Celestina Warbeck song that had been stuck in his head since the day before.

It was always easy and natural between the three of them.

And yet, as Harry’s thoughts meandered to what happened with Malfoy a few nights ago, Harry hesitated each time he considered bringing it up. He didn’t want to tell them that he agreed to help Malfoy with his Patronus, not yet. The first time he agreed to it, back in fifth year, Ron had been furious and constantly spouted that Malfoy was just using Harry. Hermione didn’t have much faith in Malfoy, either. Every time in the last few days, when Harry almost brought it up, he kept himself from speaking at the last minute.

Guilty feelings plagued him for withholding it from them—the three of them had become so much closer and more open with each other since the war ended, telling each other everything and living in one another’s pockets. There was just a niggling feeling holding him back from talking to them about the thing with Malfoy.

Instead of opening up to them about any of it, he dug his fingers deeper into the damp soil and took solace in the earthy smell.

*******

It was somehow more awkward returning to an approximation of their sessions from fifth year than it had been the first time Draco learned to cast the Patronus Charm. There was a wariness that permeated the stale air and filled the abrupt silences that stretched between them, neither of them knowing what to say.

Draco could feel the underlying current of their broken friendship, the jagged edges only partially healed over so that they didn’t fit back together in the same way they once had.

When Potter came closer to comment on the position of his wrist, or to advise him to clear his mind better, Draco caught the way he would hesitate, like he was unsure of how to even approach him.

Halfway through the second night together in the dusty classroom Draco had been using, he finally grew tired of the oppressive silence after each of his failed attempts. He ran his fingers through his fringe, pushing it back only for it to flop over his brow once more. Draco looked at Potter out of the corner of his eyes and blew out an annoyed breath when he saw that Potter didn’t even seem to be paying attention, dazed like he was off in his own world. Draco had noticed Potter was doing that often, since returning to Hogwarts.

“Potter,” he said, breaking the heavy silence. Potter glanced up, blinking rapidly.

Draco stalled, not having any idea of what he meant to say. He searched in his mind for something that would fix the unsaid things between them and landed on the end of fifth year.

“If…if I’d known, that day in the History of Magic exam…” Draco trailed off, uncomfortable at the sudden way Potter’s gaze focused on him.

“What?” Potter pressed.

Draco shifted his weight and licked his lips. “I don’t know…I might’ve…come with you? Tried to contact my father—to convince him not to—”

When Potter interrupted him, his voice was brittle: “It’s fine. It wouldn’t have mattered. They would have just found another way to—” Potter shook his head abruptly and dropped the subject. He pinched the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses slightly. “Let’s…er, just try again. Remember, it’s the memories that count in order to get you there.”

“Right,” Draco agreed, watching Potter carefully. There was more he wanted to say, but Potter didn’t appear like he wanted to continue in that vein.

After that, something finally began to shift between them, like a log had moved in a dam and water could flow freely once more. Draco considered each of his memories carefully and thought of what Potter said about the effects of stressful situations on his mind.

“You can’t keep torturing yourself with what ifs, you know,” Potter pointed out to him after what seemed like the millionth fizzle of magic. It annoyed Draco that when he _did_ pay attention, he was able to read Draco remarkably well. “There’s no point in it,” Potter added. “It’ll only drive you mad to wonder what could be different.”

Draco conceded that point. He saw Potter’s eyes shutter, lost once more to his thoughts. Draco was curious whether Potter thought of what his life would’ve been like if his parents weren’t murdered, or if he was too caught up in grief over his more recent losses. It was a strange concept, for Draco to actually care what mattered to Potter, but when he pictured losing his parents or Pansy, his heart twisted in horror.

Draco allowed himself to let go of some of his lingering guilt and regrets hovering over his choices, for not being stronger or standing up to his father.

And then at last, when he made peace with the past and made a decision to move forward, Draco’s fox poured from his wand in a steady stream of ethereal protective magic. It stood proudly, bushy tail flicking back and forth, and Draco imagined it was looking at him like it was proud of him.

“You did it!” Potter cheered.

Draco laughed, relieved and full of the serene certainty that filled him when he successfully cast the Patronus Charm.

“I did,” Draco said, holding out his hand and bent down.

His fox Patronus padded over to him and bumped its nose against his fingertips. Draco imagined he could feel the cool chill of a wet nose when the tingle of magic touched him.

“I knew you could,” Potter said softly, looking down at the fox.

Draco straightened and held out his hand to Potter. “Thank you.”

Potter took his hand without hesitation. “Yeah.” Potter’s attention drifted to the Patronus once more. “It makes sense, you know.”

“What does?” Draco asked, not following.

“The fox. It’s…” Potter cleared his throat and tugged at one of his ear lobes. “It suits you, is all. They’re very—clever,” he said, landing on the word after a quick pause. “So. Yeah. I never had the chance to say before, but…I couldn’t imagine you with any other Patronus form, I guess.”

Draco opened and closed his mouth. They were still holding onto each other’s hand, despite the shake coming to a natural close. Draco pulled his palm free and rubbed his jaw self-consciously. Unbidden, it popped into Draco’s head that Potter said he noticed Draco’s fox in the middle of the Battle.

“I—thanks,” Draco said, not even sure what he was grateful for in Potter’s observations of his Patronus.

Potter turned to occupy himself with picking up his robe in the corner of the room.

“So I suppose we don’t have to meet up anymore, then,” Potter said, shrugging into the robe. “Since you broke through your mental block.”

“What if it was a…a mishap?” Draco asked, following Potter to retrieve his own robe. “What if I still can’t do it?”

Potter slanted him a look that said _come on_ quite clearly. “You can do it. Go on, do it right now,” Potter suggested.

Draco cast the spell without even looking, and he could feel the pull on his magical core, the flow of his magic down his arm and through his wand. He knew without glancing down that his fox was standing at his side.

Potter chuckled. “See,” he said. “All better.”

“Fine, I’m cured,” Draco conceded.

They left the unused classroom and began heading in the direction to return to their dormitory. Draco turned over his thoughts in his mind and chewed on the inside of his lip, searching for a way to avoid going back to how things were before. He was suddenly determined to fix everything in his life—to regain Potter’s friendship and to let go of the past and really begin to move forward. He paused when something occurred to him.

Potter noticed and turned around. “What is it?”

“You know,” Draco said slowly, frowning. “I think…I think you should start the D.A. once more.”

“Er,” Potter said, sounding surprised. His attention darted up and down the corridor “What? Why?”

“Well, the Auror force has been depleted and reshuffled, according to the new Minister for Magic’s numerous interviews in the _Prophet_ ,” Draco pointed out. And then, reluctantly, he admitted, “I…well, it’s a bit mad of me, I suppose, but I was thinking about applying for the Auror programme.”

“You’re going to _what_?” Potter spluttered. “I never would’ve thought you had interest in joining the Aurors.”

Draco sniffed, mildly offended at his assumption. “Yes, well, thanks for your support. Anyway, I’ll need to brush up on my defense knowledge.”

Potter blinked, eyelashes fluttering over his tawny cheeks in the flickering candlelight from the sconce on the wall. “I—sorry, I…think that’s great? I mean, yeah, good. The, er, the Aurors really do need people.”

Draco rolled his eyes at Potter’s fumbling. “Won’t you be joining them?”

“I—probably,” Potter said, voice stilted and a little hoarse. “Yeah.”

He was looking at Draco with a strange light in his eyes that made Draco feel vulnerable enough to tell Potter more. “I decided to go for it because being an Auror felt like a step in the right direction—a choice completely opposite from one my father would make.”

Potter’s eyes widened in the dim light; his thick eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That’s…yeah, I can see that. I think that’s great.”

“So…resuming the D.A.?” Draco pressed, his voice ticking up in pitch with hope.

Potter ran a hand through his hair that left it ridiculously unkempt. There was a piece sticking straight up, defying gravity and logic. After a few seconds, Potter blew out a breath.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to McGonagall,” Potter said.

“Brilliant.” Draco smiled and began walking without waiting for Potter to catch up.

*******

Harry took the idea to McGonagall the next morning. He slurped the rest of his juice at breakfast in the Great Hall and grabbed one last triangle of toast when she got up to leave.

“Professor!” Harry called to get her attention when he intercepted her.

“Mr Potter,” McGonagall said. “Is there something you need?”

“Yeah— _yes_ ,” he corrected at her look. “Could, er, could I walk you to your office while I tell you?”

The lines in her forehead smoothed out and she smiled at him. “Yes, you may.”

They left the Great Hall and Harry waited to speak until the doors swung shut to drown out the clinking of cutlery and the low hum of chatter from the students and Professors still eating breakfast.

“I wanted to ask…” Harry said, pausing and mustering his confidence.

“Yes, Mr Potter?” McGonagall asked.

“I would like to form the D.A. club again,” Harry said, speaking quickly when McGonagall turned a surprised look on him. “I thought it would help some of the students supplement their studies the same way when I did it in secret during my fifth year.”

“I see,” McGonagall said. “And what would these meetings do?”

“Well, I don’t really—I mean, I probably would run them the same as before, I guess. So, teach practical defense spells so that people can get the hang of them. Like an extra tutoring kind of thing,” Harry said. “I don’t know if the Room of Requirement is still functioning. Did the curse fire affect it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Potter. The castle hasn’t revealed the door to anyone, as far as I know,” McGonagall said, sounding tired. She was quiet for a short while, and then she turned to him. “I’ll agree to your club resuming under the condition that you not break curfew for any younger students—and stay away from the dangerous unused parts of the castle that are still in disrepair.”

“Yeah? I—okay, that’s brilliant,” Harry said, feeling a quick rush of excitement.

“Since we aren’t sure of the state of the Room, you may use the Great Hall for these practices,” McGonagall said. “Why don’t we say you start with meeting after dinner twice a week.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed. His mind began to run over plans, already galloping ahead of him with ideas. He hadn’t been fully invested until he received McGonagall’s approval. “Can I start them next week?”

“Of course,” McGonagall said.

They reached the stone gargoyle guarding the steps to her office and it hopped aside to allow her to pass once she said the password. Harry turned to leave.

“Harry,” McGonagall called before he could walk away.

“Yes?” He turned around.

She was smiling at him, beaming with pride and love and it made Harry’s breath hitch.

“I’m very proud of you, I hope you know,” she said.

Harry swallowed past the lump that formed in his throat. He fidgeted, ruffling his hair. “’Course,” he mumbled, embarrassed.

“Hogwarts will always be your home, so should you ever desire to return to your…teaching roots,” she said, semi-teasing, but her face was full of seriousness, “Then Hogwarts will be here to welcome you back. If you ever grow tired of being an Auror, that is.”

Harry’s face felt hot and he could barely meet McGonagall’s kind eyes, entirely too flustered by her offer.

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall,” Harry whispered, hoarse and rough and full of so much love for his Head of House.

Impulsively, Harry darted forward and hugged her, squeezing her frail form too tightly, but he couldn’t stop himself from clinging to her after all she’d done to watch out for him over the course of his life. He felt her arms come around him; she patted his back and murmured in his ear, though her accent was too thick with emotion for Harry to understand any of it while he was similarly compromised by his overwhelming emotions.

“We’d be honoured to have you here,” McGonagall said, her voice heavy. When she pulled back, her eyes were glistening and she sniffled.

“I would be…” Harry tried to say, but his throat went tight and burned, so he broke off and nodded quickly. When he swallowed and felt like he could speak again, he added, “Thank you. Have a good day.”

“Harry,” she replied, nodding to him.

Harry watched her go up the stairs, discreetly dashing away her unshed tears. When she was out of sight he pulled his glasses off and rubbed roughly at his eyes, laughing wetly at himself.

*******

Harry was surprised at how many people showed up once they started the D.A. tutoring sessions in the Great Hall. There was a healthy group of sixth and seventh year students and all of the eighth years joined. It was almost nostalgic to be meeting up with the same people he originally started the D.A. with in fifth year, but there wasn’t the same sense of urgency and secrecy. Instead, the students came together with a focus on the practical skills and their application for protective magic.

This time around there was no jinxed member list, and the meetings worked more like semi-official group tutoring. Some students had come to every session so far, and others, like Pansy Parkinson and Terry Boot, only showed up when they felt they needed extra help.

Their new DADA professor, O’Toole, even gave Harry a copy of notes from her lesson plans to structure the club meetings accordingly. He’d thanked her when she commended his initiative to provide a group study for students that needed more practice to refine their skills. Harry liked her; she was straightforward in the lessons she taught and she reminded him a lot of Molly Weasley, with her short stature and approachable demeanor.

The tables in the Great Hall were all pushed to the side, lining the walls and leaving an open space. He and Hermione were demonstrating protective wards. Harry explained what was happening while Hermione did the spells and concealed herself inside a bubble of magic that had some younger students gasping and staring.

“These are spells that actually saved lives during the war and kept us safe,” Harry explained. “Just like the different levels of Protego, _Salvio hexia_ is going to create a strong web of protection.”

Harry walked around Hermione’s concealment to point out the way she layered her wards on top of each other. “See here? It’s important to weave your protection wards together to make them more resilient to detection. It can be a tricky type of magic; you have to keep yourself relaxed and focused before doing any wand movements. Speak clearly with intent to push an extra _oomph_ from your core into the spell.”

After the demonstration was over, Harry lined the group up into three queues and watched them from the side. His attention flit back and forth between each person’s turn. When Malfoy stepped up, Harry’s attention lingered. He looked graceful while holding his wand arm aloft, poised and focused, and when he cast a Shield Charm followed by a _Fianto Duri_ to connect the magic together and a repelling charm Harry couldn’t help but be a little mesmerised following Malfoy’s wand movements. A net of blue sparks shot out, spreading and combining as it came down to enclose around a target.

“Good,” Harry blurted.

Malfoy’s eyes darted to him. He nodded and stepped aside to allow the person behind him to step up.

After everyone had a turn to try out their spells, Harry separated them into smaller groups. He appointed his friends to oversee them, picking out those that had experience to assist the practice session. He selected Malfoy, too; he might not be on the same level as Harry, Ron, and Hermione, but he was above average over the other students.

“So, you’ll want to work on tossing a volley of protection spells around the circle. See if you can keep adding onto it to make it bigger,” Harry instructed.

Pride swelled in his chest when the groups had glowing bubbles of magic growing larger and larger, each new spell overlapping and knitting into the last. He beamed at their success and felt a wave of joy cresting in him. He felt grounded, anchored once more, by helping these young witches and wizards.

Harry’s eyes strayed once more to Malfoy. The line of his back was perfectly straight while he presided over his group of sixth years. His eyes were critical, but he was never cruel, as he might have once been. Harry drifted closer and smiled to himself when he overheard Malfoy correcting one boy’s stance and offered sound advice to one of the girls. Even with several groups in the room, Harry still couldn’t help the way his attention was drawn to Malfoy. He gave up trying to fight it halfway through; it was futile for Harry to try to ignore him—he’d never been good at that.

When the meeting came to a close, Malfoy came up to Harry while the students filtered out.

“Potter, can I talk to you?” he asked.

Ron was passing Harry to help Hermione put the tables back. He paused and shot Harry a look that said _if you need backup, I’m right here_. Harry nodded to Ron, smiling at his friend’s unflagging loyalty, and turned to Malfoy. He had his hands in his trouser pockets, affecting an air of casual indifference, but Harry caught the way he dragged his teeth over his bottom lip.

“Yeah?”

Malfoy waited a beat, eyes tracking the last of the students trickling out of the Great Hall. When the room was cleared, except for Hermione and Ron levitating tables on the other side of the room, Malfoy blew out a breath.

“Malfoy?” Harry prompted.

“Why did you put me on the spot like that?” Malfoy asked.

“How do you mean?” Harry cocked his head to the side. “Why did I pick you to lead a group?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said. His brows pinched together and his teeth peeked out to scrape across his lip once more. “I noticed that the others you selected were…” He trailed off and left his sentence unfinished.

Harry lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “If you want to be a good Auror, it’s important to be able to stay cool under pressure. I didn’t realise you were uncomfortable at all. You looked like you knew exactly what you were doing—I even saw you help them out.”

“I don’t have anything to teach these children,” Malfoy said. A shadow of unhappiness darkened his face for a moment before it cleared into a mask of indifference again. He sounded like his old, petulant self when he added, “I’m the one who wanted your help in the first place.”

“Yeah, and you got it,” Harry answered, laughter creeping into his voice. “Your magic is fine now; you can do your Patronus again. I don’t see the problem?”

“The Ministry might not agree,” Malfoy said cryptically.

“Were you planning on telling them you experienced a block on your magic when you applied to the programme?” Harry asked dubiously.

Malfoy scoffed. “Of course not. I just meant…” He paused, watching Ron and Hermione leave the room. When they were completely alone, he continued. “They won’t be easy on me—it’s not like they’ll just hand me a position the same as they would for you.”

Harry’s amusement shriveled up and he crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not why they wanted—”

Malfoy held up a hand to interrupt Harry. “It’ll never be the same for me as it is for you, Potter. My family…they chose their path. And now, because of that, I’ve got this dark stain hanging over my head. With my father in Azkaban, I’m the one they’ll look toward to bear the stigma of his decisions.” Malfoy’s face twisted liked he’d bitten into a lemon. “That’s already happening, even though I never took the Mark and spent the war with my head down, only spared because I was a pure-blood. And why should I have been involved? I was just a kid!”

When he was done his rant, his pale cheeks were blotchy with colour and a lock of his hair fell forward over his eyebrow. He brushed it back with long fingers, looking uncomfortable.

Harry searched for something to say, surprised Malfoy would open up and reveal so much to him. An idea popped into his head.

“Let’s duel,” Harry offered.

“What?” Malfoy was staring at him in bewilderment. “Potter, why on Merlin’s green earth would—”

“I’m serious,” Harry said insistently. “I want to show you something.”

“You don’t make any sense,” Malfoy said. Still, he fell naturally into a duelling stance, a determined gleam flashing in his eyes. “Is duelling just your natural response to everything?”

Harry shrugged and walked backwards several paces to put some distance between them, keeping his eyes on Malfoy. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his wand, rolling it between his fingertips and letting the anticipation of the duel build. His magic simmered beneath the surface, sparking against his skin and surging with readiness to pour out of him. Malfoy blinked several times, losing his focus for a moment and looking dazed.

Harry didn’t ask if he was ready before firing off two spells in quick succession. Malfoy reacted on instinct, dodging the first and deflecting the second with a quick slash of his wand. His grey eyes flashed and he curled his lip, murmuring beneath his breath and throwing a spell Harry didn’t recognise at him.

Harry ducked the spell and cast again. They volleyed spells back and forth, circling each other like jungle cats on the prowl. Harry didn’t go easy on him; Malfoy used everything at his disposal to counter his attack, hiding behind the tables and tripping Harry when he came too close.

Harry laughed, enjoying himself while his arm moved with muscle memory and his magic sang for him. Malfoy’s answering smirk was sharp and wicked and it made Harry’s adrenaline kick faster.

Malfoy kept Harry at bay with an impressive, creative finesse. He came alive and moved with fluidity and deadly grace, stretching and jumping and sliding to block Harry’s attacks. Harry threw himself into the duel with greater focus, competition driving him to get a hit or two in, to beat Malfoy.

When they finally came to a natural finish, they were both bright-eyed and out of breath.

“See?” Harry pushed his glasses higher on his nose and gestured at Malfoy. “The Aurors will value someone who can assess and react the way you do. I reckon you’ve done quite a lot of practicing to reach that level.”

“I had to,” Malfoy said solemnly, his good mood overshadowed by the haunted look in his eyes. Harry’s smile faded at the tone in his voice. “It was a matter of survival.”

“Well,” Harry said after a few moments. “That’s a sign of a good Auror, too.”

“Thanks,” Malfoy said. He turned to gather his things and nodded to Harry on his way out of the Great Hall. “Good duel, Potter.”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

When Malfoy was gone, Harry’s breath gusted out of him. Malfoy might be indecisive about his chosen path, but Harry felt a shining moment of clarity. The duel made Harry come alive with instinct. For the first time since the war had ended, Harry felt ready to join the Aurors.

*******

Draco didn’t go straight back to the dormitory. Instead, he walked the halls to burn off the excess energy running through him. His duel with Potter fired him up, but the question still hung heavy over his head.

Why did he decide joining the Aurors would be the best choice for himself?

He turned a corner and strode down the corridor, letting his legs carry him without a direction in mind.

Potter was the first person he’d told about it. He said it was a step in the right direction, and that much was true as far as Draco’s ambitions to earn respect went. However, the most appealing aspect was how becoming an Auror was the furthest thing from what his father expected of him. For once, Draco was making a choice for himself without considering if it aligned with his father’s desired image for him; it was a freeing feeling that Draco clung to, addicted to it like it was Elixir of Life.

His footsteps echoed off the flagstone floors. Portraits watched him with open curiosity as he passed.

Draco let himself imagine the Minister of Magic pinning the shining emblem of the Ministry to his chest and shaking his hand. He thought he might enjoy having a hand in replenishing the Auror ranks and being part of the group that was granted the privilege of deciding which poison to weed from the wizarding world. Those Aurors would go down in history as important, _respectable_ , and Draco wanted to be among them.

If he were to walk down Diagon Alley with his mother on his arm wearing the Auror uniform robes, then the wizarding public would no longer look at him like he was the pile of Niffler shit they just stepped in. He would be able to move freely around the wizarding community without feeling like he had to watch his back so closely. He wanted that burden gone, wanted to feel important and connected and to rid himself of the black cloud of his family’s connection to the war.

Draco tilted his head to the side in consideration, pulling a face as he thought.

He wasn’t sure if being an Auror was something he would do forever, but it felt like the right choice to make at the present and it gave him a path to follow after eighth year came to a close. If he became an Auror, no one could call him complacent or accuse him of attempting to remain neutral. It would make a statement, and Draco knew it was the time for being crystal clear rather than being slippery to suit his needs. Besides, his attempt at neutrality hadn’t ended up working out so well for him.

Abruptly, Draco spun on his heel and walked in the opposite direction to return to the eighth year dorm. There was no point in hiding himself away when he wanted to prove to everyone that he was different—that he wasn’t just a shadow of his father.

When he entered the common room he stopped off in his room to collect his Charms textbook and went out into the common room. He settled at one of the unoccupied desks and opened his book.

There were others in the room—his friends and Potter’s, along with the Patil twins and the Hufflepuffs scattered around the common room. He hadn’t noticed since the Hogsmeade trip at the start of term, but all of them had blended together and ignored the lines drawn in the sand by their House associations. Parvati and Pansy were often arm in arm when they left the common room, and Blaise stroked his chin thoughtfully, leaning over a chess set with Weasley. Goldstein and Abbott liked to curl up together on the same sofa late at night, trading chaste kisses before separating for bed. Draco’s eyes slid over to Potter, slouched in one of the armchairs with a book open on his lap, looking like he was ready to doze off next to the crackling fire. Even _they_ had buried the hatchet and became friends. Or, at least Draco hoped that was the case between them.

“Why don’t you study over here, Malfoy?” Finch-Fletchley suggested. “Is that the Charms book? Hannah and I were going over our notes if you’d like to join us.”

Draco looked over to Pansy and Blaise, each of them wrapped up in conversations with the twins and Potter’s friends.

It occurred to him that they actually might be friends, like him and Potter—that the melding sense of unity between them wasn’t exclusive to just Draco and Potter. In the end, they were all just young adults forced to grow up too quickly when faced with the horrors of the world, and if there hadn’t been prejudices to separate them that this might very well be what their formative years at school looked like.

Draco stood and joined the rest of the group in the sitting area. “Have you gone over the atmospheric permutations yet?”

“Just about to,” Abbott said, moving her other textbooks to make room for Draco to sit.

After working with them for several minutes, Draco glanced up. He noticed Potter wasn’t in his chair anymore. He was leaning over Longbottom’s shoulder; it looked like he was explaining something about different wand movements, judging by the way he twisted his wrist through the air as a demonstration. Longbottom repeated the motion and the smile Potter granted him was nearly blinding in its brightness.

Draco’s fingers brushed over his lips, his eyes tracking Potter while he talked with the others and laughed, his smile stretching wide. Everyone seemed to flourish and improve because of Potter—even Draco. He licked his lips self-consciously and dropped his eyes to the page he was meant to be reading.

His thoughts drifted when the words from the text blurred together. He wondered if Potter might ever consider teaching. His disposition was well suited for it; there was something about the way he focused on his students that made them believe that they could succeed.

Draco closed his eyes for a moment and tried to picture it. The image came to him easily: Potter dressed in professor’s robes and a chunky knit jumper to ward off the chill in the castle, leaning casually against the desk at the front of a classroom. Potter’s smile was soft in Draco’s imagination, and he could clearly see how easily Potter would guide the students to encourage them. It was a good look to picture on him.

“Did you finish reading the passage on the Great Hall and the windows at the Ministry?” Abbott asked.

Draco coughed, trying to cover up that he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Yes, I was—just thinking about how that spellwork could be tweaked for an exterior application,” Draco said.

Potter’s laugh hooked Draco’s attention and pulled it to him with the force of a Summoning charm. He was flopped back into the armchair closest to the fire and Granger was leaning on her folded arms over the back. Draco swallowed and tore his eyes away once more, feeling like the room was several degrees warmer and his tie was too snug around his neck.

*******

Harry was in Greenhouse Two, up to his elbows in dirt, when Malfoy strolled in. It was early in the spring term and it was drizzling outside.

“I was looking for you,” Malfoy said, looking around. “Longbottom and Granger said I’d find you here.”

“Hey,” Harry greeted, fingers flexing in the soil.

He looked at Malfoy and then quickly dragged his eyes away. Malfoy was bundled in a dark cloak and his cheeks were tinged pink from the magically controlled temperature difference between the greenhouse and outdoors. He had expensive looking leather gloves on; the tips of his hair curled over his ears from the rain.

“Why were you looking for me?” Harry asked, turning back to his task instead of staring at Malfoy.

“Why are you in here?” Malfoy walked up beside Harry and leaned into his personal space to look over his shoulder. “Are you actually _gardening_ right now?”

“Yes,” Harry told him, feeling a little indignant at Malfoy’s tone.

“Alright, so what you’re telling me is you’ve swapped bodies with Longbottom, and _he’s_ the real Harry Potter and you’re just renting out space in his body,” Malfoy said. He leaned his hip against the worktable and smirked at Harry.

“Is it really so hard to believe?” Harry asked.

Malfoy’s smirk stretched wider. “A bit. I’ve never known you to be one that likes to hang out with the plants voluntarily.”

“I like it here,” Harry said. He brushed off his hands and snorted when Malfoy skirted out of the way to avoid the mess. He frowned at Harry’s dirty hands. “The plants are nice to me, and they don’t talk back.”

Malfoy hummed and went to stand on the other side of Harry, watching while he worked with the plants. They were quiet for a few minutes.

“So, why were you looking for me, then?” Harry asked to break the silence.

Malfoy moved a set of gardening tools from the bench and sat down. He took great care in removing his gloves and placing them on the worktable. He stretched his long legs out before him and looked at the wall over Harry’s shoulder when he answered.

“I was wondering…” Malfoy struggled with his words, looking like he was fighting with himself. “That is, I’ve been curious to know—if you’re amenable to it, because I would like to lay the past to rest and—”

“Malfoy,” Harry said in an exasperated breath.

It was very unlike Malfoy to not have control over himself in every imaginable way. Malfoy paused and combed his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear. He inhaled through his nose and started over.

“I wanted to know if we might resume the friendship we started in fifth year,” he finally asked.

Harry’s mouth fell open. Malfoy was looking at him with a steely determination in his eyes that Harry responded to—had _always_ responded to.

“I thought we already had,” he said.

“Oh,” Malfoy said, his voice ticking up, like he wasn’t sure Harry was telling the truth. “I didn’t want to presume.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said with amusement. “I forgave you a while ago. I’ve considered us friends since then.”

“Oh,” Malfoy repeated, his mouth making a perfect little ‘o’ of surprise.

Harry had to shift his attention away, before he let a stupid urge take control over him. He sucked his lips between his teeth and picked up a plant that needed pruning. “You’re welcome to stay. I, er, I have some more I was going to do. Want to go flying later, if the rain clears up?”

Malfoy tilted a sly look in Harry’s direction. “Afraid a little rain is going to throw off your game? I knew I was the better Seeker all this time.”

A smile broke across Harry’s face. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I will, because it’s the truth,” Malfoy said airily. “Go on, stick your fingers back in the dirt if you must.”

Malfoy settled against the bench with a smile playing at the corners of his sharp mouth. Harry could feel the hot press of Malfoy’s gaze on him each time he stroked a leaf or used his fingers to dig in the soil. It made something coil tight in his stomach and made him hyper-aware of everything. Malfoy murmured quiet jabs to him, teasing him about his newfound penchant for sticking his hands in the dirt when things got to be too much.

“You know, most people just wank when they need to be alone,” Malfoy said and his eyes were impossibly bright.

Harry’s breath caught just looking at him. He licked his lips, dragging his tongue over the chapped skin, and a nervous laugh broke loose from his throat.

“I never said I didn’t do that,” Harry pointed out. “And I’m pretty sure people would notice if I was disappearing in the middle of the day to wank.”

Malfoy hummed pleasantly, his lids lowering to half-mast. “Is this some kind of fetish, then? Or are the plants like foreplay for you? I bet you’re sort who likes to get yourself really worked up first before you give in; you noble types are always martyrs that way.”

Harry’s breathing was shallow and his face felt hot and tingly.

“Don’t be weird, Malfoy,” Harry said. Christ, when had his voice dropped to such a low rumble? “Gardening is not some kink.”

“You’d be surprised,” Malfoy said. He was standing; Harry didn’t remember him getting up, but he was coming closer. “There’s all sorts of things that work for people, when it’s the right person doing them.”

Harry met Malfoy’s eyes and watched the way they slid down to where his hands were wrapped up in the affectionate embrace of one of his flowers he’d been growing, the thin curls of vine twisting around each of his fingers. Malfoy’s lips parted and his tongue darted out to swipe his lower lip.

“I’m going to go,” Malfoy said. “I’ll meet you on the pitch if the rain stops.”

“Okay,” Harry breathed, raspy and faint. He had no idea what just happened between them, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off Malfoy’s back as he left the greenhouse, tracking him until he disappeared over the hill that led up to the castle.

Harry blew out a disbelieving breath and sat heavily on the bench. He tried to figure out what the hell that had been and why it left him excited. He glanced down between his spread legs to where he was sporting the stirrings of an erection in his pants when he played Malfoy’s words back in his head.

*******

Malfoy filled Harry’s thoughts for several days after the weird conversation they had in the greenhouse. He became aware of Malfoy in a way he hadn’t been before—or, at least, with a renewed obsession.

As Harry sat at the Gryffindor table at breakfast in the Great Hall, he contemplated the change in his Malfoy fixation. He had his hands cupped around a steaming mug of tea and tipped his head back to look up at the purple-grey of the morning clouds depicted in the charmed ceiling. It wasn’t that Harry had never been attracted to other boys before. He looked at them just as often as he did at girls—even more so since the war ended and he could self-examine his habits and understand them better without the shroud of war hanging over his head. He’d come to appreciate their angled jaw lines and the slope of their shoulders, but never had a specific fixation on one boy.

“Why are you up so early?”

Harry startled slightly when Neville sat down beside him and reached for the teapot in front of Harry. He rubbed sleep from his eyes while he poured himself a cup and fixed his tea with a splash of cream.

“I, er, couldn’t sleep. Woke up from a dream and saw there wasn’t enough time to go back to sleep, so I got up,” Harry answered. An embarrassed heat flooded his face, making his cheeks hot. Harry brought his cup to his face to play it off like it was from the steam. He avoided meeting Neville’s eyes.

Neville made a noncommittal hum and began piling food on his plate.

Harry closed his eyes and tried not to remember the dream. So, of course, the dream was all he could think of. It had been— _vulgar_. Just replaying it in his head made his breath come short and quick, his stomach clenching and rippling with a shudder. In the dream Harry and Malfoy were in Greenhouse Two with the vines of plants twisting and tangling around them to pull their bodies close, trapping them together. Harry reasoned that it was just because of the things Malfoy said to him that made him dream of it that way. Dream-Malfoy leaned close to Harry’s face and whispered filthy things about what the plants would do to them; Harry remembered keening in the dream, swaying unsteadily on his feet. Malfoy’s posh accent spilling from his lips made Harry want to break free of the vines and hold him down on the bench, feed him his cock and see how high class he could sound sucking him off.

Harry woke from the dream with his cock achingly hard that morning, hissing when his hand slid beneath his waistband to palm it. He’d rolled out of bed and wanked himself hard and fast in a hot shower, trying hard not to think of the Malfoy from his dream.

After that, he wasn’t able to get back to sleep, so he ended up in the Great Hall with a self-refilling teapot while he waited for breakfast to appear.

Harry rubbed a hand over his face and smiled weakly at Neville when he silently offered a serving dish of bacon. As they ate, the rest of the Gryffindors slowly trickled in. Ginny was partially dressed in her Quidditch kit and she dropped her arm guards on the table when she plopped down across from Ron.

“Match today,” Ron said with all the solemnness of a Quidditch enthusiast.

“We’re going to trounce the Slytherins,” Ginny said, nodding. Her eyes flashed with the fierce determination of competitiveness.

“We’ll be cheering you on,” Harry said.

When Ginny turned away to eat her breakfast, Harry snuck a glance over to the Slytherin table. Malfoy was there, leaning his head against Parkinson’s shoulder. There was a soft smile on his face.

The eighth years all agreed to go together as a group to support the teams playing. Malfoy, Parkinson, and Zabini all sported their old House colours while Harry and the Gryffindors were outfitted in scarlet and gold to support theirs. Luna also joined them, wearing her hair glamoured to look like a lion’s mane and one of Ginny’s extra Quidditch jumpers with her number and name across the back. Even the other Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs that joined them wore a mix of supportive attire.

Harry thrived on the cheerful mood as they walked down to the pitch, feeling young and carefree. Malfoy looked similarly happy, even as he bumped his shoulder against Harry’s and sniped at him.

“We’re obviously going to win. I don’t know why you’re bothering to even show up,” Malfoy said. There was a playful look on his face that Harry wanted to tuck away and keep forever.

Harry snorted and gave Malfoy a light shove. “What track record are you basing that claim on? If I remember correctly, the Gryffindors are usually the ones who win these matches against the Slytherin team.”

Malfoy pulled a scandalised face. “That’s not true! Take that back!”

Harry grinned and dodged Malfoy when he went to pull on Harry’s scarf.

“Just telling it like it is, Malfoy,” Harry sang.

Once they reached the stands, they found an empty spot in the Hufflepuff section. Hermione had said they should sit somewhere neutral rather than splitting up in the Gryffindor and Slytherin stands. Somehow Malfoy ended up right next to Harry, sitting so close they were practically attached from shoulder to hip to knee.

The game started up at Hooch’s whistle and the players took to the sky on their brooms in zipping flashes of red and green. Watching them soar by made Harry’s fingers clench together in his lap and he saw Malfoy’s similar reaction out of the corner of his eye.

“Miss it?” Harry asked.

Malfoy hummed in response, his eyes glued to the players tossing the Quaffle back and forth as they made their way to the goal posts.

“Yeah. Me too,” Harry agreed. “It’s not the same without a whole team to play with.”

A strong gust of wind blew through the stands, sending a Gryffindor player swooping over their heads. Malfoy ducked against Harry to avoid getting smacked in the face with broom bristles.

The game continued on, with Gryffindor and Slytherin Chasers both scoring. Malfoy crowed at each one, leaning into Harry’s space and hollering support for his House’s team.

“We’re going to win, Potter,” Malfoy said, a wide grin on his face. “I can feel it.”

“Nah,” Harry said. “Ginny’s doing really well as the captain. She’s definitely going to lead the Gryffindors to victory.”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting something.” Malfoy brought his face close to Harry’s, practically nose-to-nose. Harry blinked and leaned back slightly.

“And what’s that?” Harry mumbled.

Malfoy looked like a cat with the way the corners of his lips curled. “The Gryffindor team no longer has their star Seeker.”

Malfoy pulled away from him, his attention back on the game while Harry was reeling.

Hermione jostled Harry on his other side. “Look, Ginny’s got them on the ropes!”

Harry leaned forward and cupped his hands around his mouth to holler his support when Ginny executed a maneuver that had her hanging from her broom with just her legs to make the shot, faking out the Slytherin Keeper. Ron was going wild at his side and Luna sent a volley of red sparks into the air.

Even Malfoy looked reluctantly impressed at his side when Harry glanced at him. Harry nudged him and grinned.

“What was that you were saying about certain victory?” Harry teased.

“Slytherin’s still ahead,” Malfoy pointed out, his eyebrows raised.

They both were alert when the Snitch was sighted, their muscle memory kicking in and their senses attuned to the golden ball as it darted around the pitch. The Gryffindor Seeker spotted it first and barreled after it, but the Slytherin Seeker cut her off and caught it first. With the lead in points and catching the Snitch, the Slytherin team won.

Malfoy and Zabini cheered, standing and jumping up and down. Ron groaned on Hermione’s other side and buried his face in her spiraled curls hide his suffering. Harry watched Ginny and the rest of her team land and shake the hand of the Slytherin captain with grace. He could see them talking, but couldn’t read their lips from so far away.

On the way back to the castle, Malfoy was endlessly smug about the win. He hadn’t shut up about it since leaving the stands.

“It was skillful flying is what it was, Weasley! I don’t want to hear otherwise,” Malfoy insisted. “True, your sister pulled some impressive moves of her own, but even you have to admit that the Slytherin Seeker trounced the Gryffindor one when he cut her off and got to the Snitch first. It was bloody brilliant!”

“Everyone played really well,” Harry said, shaking his head ruefully. “It was a good game.”

Malfoy turned in his direction and it struck Harry how carefree he looked. Warmth bloomed in his chest at the sight of it and all he could do was smile back. When they got back to the dorm, they all went their separate ways. Malfoy went to his room and Harry hovered in the hall, anticipating the next time they would be able to spend some time together. Though they shared the same dormitory, it sometimes seemed as though they were still separated.

Later that week, they had another patrol.

Harry listened to the echo of their footsteps while they trekked in the direction of the sixth floor parapets that ran between the towers.

Harry did everything he could to push his recent thoughts aside. He didn’t want to be weird; Harry didn’t even know if Malfoy was like him. For all Harry knew, Malfoy had plans to marry Parkinson when the spring term ended. He didn’t want to ruin their friendship, either—not after they’d finally begun to understand one another.

Malfoy had a darker tinge to his humour that Harry gravitated toward. He showed Harry more of himself every time they spent time together, revealing his complex layers with each fresh smile and full-bodied laugh. It painted a stark contrast of how many similarities they shared and how different their lives might have been if there weren’t things like blood prejudices and old House rivalries separating them.

“You’re quiet tonight.” Malfoy’s voice almost sounded eerie with the way it sounded off the crumbling stone and was stolen away by the gusts of wind coming through the cracks and holes in the walls.

Harry tilted his head to look at him. The moonlight was breaking through one of the leftover blasts of damage in the walls and it silhouetted Malfoy’s light hair in a halo of pale glowing light. He looked beautiful— _ethereal_ with a blanket of stars framing him. He was peering at Harry curiously and Harry had to blink himself back into awareness and shake away the direction his thoughts turned in.

_Steady on, Harry_ , he thought.

“I was just thinking about how the spring term will be over before we know it,” Harry said. “It’s funny—at the start of the school year I only decided to come back just before term started. And now…now I’m kind of sad it has to end.”

“Everything ends eventually,” Malfoy said. “Nothing lasts forever.”

Harry hummed. “It’s nice to hold onto, though.”

Malfoy flashed him a look Harry couldn’t read and stepped away from the frame of the night sky. “It’s also nice to make sure things go differently. To change the path and reset the course.”

“Sure,” Harry agreed. “Like what you want to do, right?”

“Quite,” Malfoy said. “Will you hold special revision meetings for the D.A. so that the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. level students can get in some practical application study?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “That’s probably a good idea.”

They came to the end of the corridor and both of them peered out the arched entrance that led to the parapets. It didn’t look entirely safe to walk out on; large chunks of the path were missing. Harry took a step and Malfoy’s hand on his arm halted him.

“I don’t have a death wish to match yours, Potter,” Malfoy said.

“I don’t have one anymore; I’ve already done that,” Harry told him. Malfoy sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes searching Harry’s. “I’m happy to wait for it to take its time finding me again.”

“I wasn’t really sure—you never said outright at the Trials,” Malfoy said quietly.

Harry shrugged and turned to walk back up the corridor they came down. “There’s a lot I didn’t say outright. I said what mattered, though.”

“Yes,” Malfoy agreed faintly, catching back up with Harry. He put his hand on Harry’s arm. “Thank you. I know Mother owled you to say as much, but I would like to say it, too. You kept her from being sent to Azkaban.”

They came to a stop and stood in the middle of the corridor. Malfoy’s eyes were shadowed and he looked nothing like the arsehole Harry had grown up hating.

Harry liked who Malfoy had become, the man he’d grown into. Harry wanted to know him.

They stared at each other and Harry could feel his impulsiveness rising, clawing its way out and taking charge.

Harry let it; he took a step closer and reveled in the way Malfoy’s breath caught. Their chests brushed together and Harry brought a hand up to cup Malfoy’s jaw, tilting his head. It felt fast when he leaned in to catch Malfoy’s lips in a kiss, but he went slow so that Malfoy could stop him if it wasn’t what he wanted.

Malfoy made a broken sound when their lips touched. Harry answered it with one of his own, quickly bringing his other hand up to slide his fingers into Malfoy’s hair and pull him closer. Malfoy’s lips were warm and soft and they melded to his easily, like they always were meant to fit together in that way.

One of them moved—Harry wasn’t sure who—and then there was tongue. Harry’s knees nearly buckled and he groaned quietly into the kiss. They moved together, sliding and tasting and breathing one another in. And it was _brilliant_.

Malfoy’s hands fluttered in his periphery, like he was unsure where he was allowed to touch. Finally they landed on his biceps and squeezed. He tugged Harry closer, impossibly close, until Harry was barely sure where he ended and Malfoy began. There was no space left between them at all—and still, Harry wanted more.

Harry used his hold on Malfoy’s hair to tilt Malfoy’s head to a better angle and kissed him deeper. Malfoy shuddered against him.

Abruptly, Malfoy wrenched himself away and staggered back a few steps. His fingers were pressed to his lips and he was wild-eyed, staring at Harry.

Harry reached out to him, still wrapped in the perfection that he felt kissing him, wanting it to go on for longer. But when he saw the look in Malfoy’s eyes, his hands dropped to his side. Harry’s breath hitched painfully in his throat.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—we can still be—” Harry said, cutting himself off before he could finish any of his sentences.

Awkwardness permeated the air and, like a bubble expanding, it pushed Harry back. The moment was broken and Harry didn’t know how to get it back or what to do. He swallowed and gestured.

“Should we—the patrol?” Harry tried. Malfoy still hadn’t said anything and it was freaking him out.

_Oh god, he doesn’t like boys_ , Harry thought in a daze. He’d fucked up by kissing Malfoy and now he’d gone and ruined their friendship, just like he feared.

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated again, with an edge to his voice that he couldn’t control.

Malfoy cleared his throat and spun on his heel. He walked several paces away and then looked at Harry over his shoulder.

“Are you coming?” Malfoy asked. He sounded as if nothing out of the ordinary happened in the last ten minutes.

“Yeah,” Harry said after a beat. “Yeah, I’m coming. Sorry.”

*******

Draco fell into bed with little grace, his whole body bouncing. He stared up at the bed hangings with wide eyes. His mind was racing, trying to process the fact that _Potter_ had just _kissed him_ on their patrol.

Draco lifted his fingers to touch his lips once more. He imagined they still tingled with the pressure of Potter’s lips on his. Draco traced his bottom lip with one fingertip.

There was no way he was going to be able to get the kiss out of his head.

He closed his eyes and tried to find some evidence from recent interactions that would point to Potter wanting to kiss him. True, Draco had been overtly flirtatious when he found Potter gardening in the greenhouse, but he hadn’t meant—

Draco rolled over onto his side and pressed his face into his pillow. _Had_ he meant—? He bit his lip and conjured an image of Potter in his head. He saw him on a broom, windblown and his hair ruffled out of place; his eyes were vivid and bright and his smile was lopsided. Draco knew he was attractive. A deep part of him—one that was hidden away—whispered to him that Draco had been attracted to Potter for a long time. Draco always noticed him; he had even had dreams of him before.

But the fluttering in his stomach that had taken up a permanent residence since Potter’s kiss felt like something more than just attraction. Somewhere along the way, while he was gaining back Potter’s friendship, Draco might have developed actual feelings for Potter.

“Oh buggering bollocks,” Draco whispered under his breath, stilling for a moment when the person in the bed next to his snuffled in their sleep and rolled over.

_I like Potter_ , Draco thought helplessly to himself.

Anytime their paths crossed over the following week, Draco’s heart reminded him of his new discovery, throbbing insistently. Draco tried to act like nothing was different between them, but when he spoke to him, Potter would make a choked off sound and look at him with a constipated expression.

“You look ill, Potter,” Draco told him, confused by Potter’s strange reactions. Draco was just trying to maintain their friendship, while Potter had become a bumbling Erumpent without any sense.

“Just—feeling funny,” Potter said, voice strained. “We should go flying.”

“I have to revise,” Draco said, holding up his textbook. “Another time.”

“Right,” Potter said. His shoulder slumped and he made a flimsy excuse to leave.

It continued on like that into a second week, only growing more frustrating as things became more awkward between them. Part of Draco wanted to walk up to Potter, grip his jumper and haul him in for another kiss; another part of him wanted to climb onto the table in the Great Hall and dramatically shout that Potter kissed him. Only, he did none of those things.

There were only so many ways Draco could defy his father, and flaunting his preferences for the same sex wasn’t one of them. He had no desire to out himself so publicly.

Instead, Draco suffered in silence while he made every attempt to keep a firm hold on his friendship with Potter. He focused on his studies, worked diligently with Potter in Potions lessons, and strolled the main street of Hogsmeade with Pansy on his arm when they had a free afternoon.

Potter did not make any attempts to kiss him again.

Draco soothed himself by pushing his palm beneath his pants at night, behind the safety of curtains that were charmed silent, and worked himself over while he thought of Potter’s mouth on his. In his imagination, Draco didn’t stop Potter from kissing him. He pictured walking Potter backward and pushing him against the cold stone wall; fantasized about touching him beneath his clothes and tasting his tongue once more. He bit into his fist when he spilled over his knuckles with a soundless cry.

*******

Draco, Pansy, and Blaise were sitting by the lake on the first truly warm day of the late spring. N.E.W.T.s began looming over their heads and they decided to take a brief respite from the endless amounts of work to enjoy the weather.

Pansy was perched on a large, flat rock that sat over the water’s edge. Her feet were bare and her painted toes skimmed into the water below. She leaned back on her palms and tilted her face to the sky, eyes closed and her short, sleek hair swinging when she kicked her feet. Blaise was seated on a lower rock looking like he might fall asleep at any moment, his elbow propped on his knee to support his head against his fist.

Draco stood from his position and walked up to the edge of the bank where small waves were lapping the shore. He looked down at the small river stones and a distant memory of Potter skipping them floated to the forefront of his mind. He bent down and scooped up a handful, turning them over in his palm and selecting one.

“Ten Sickles says I can skip this four times or more,” Draco said. He glanced up at Pansy.

“Pass. I don’t need your money, darling,” Pansy said. The corners of her mouth turned up and she faced the sky once more.

Draco frowned. “You’re going to get freckles.”

“I will not,” Pansy said. “I did the sun protection charms before coming outside. _You_ , on the other hand, are already pink the cheeks. You’re getting sunburn. Don’t come whinging to me about it later.”

Draco reached up and touched his nose. It did feel warm, blast it all. He grumbled under his breath as he drew his wand and hurriedly cast the charms he should’ve done when they first came outside.

Draco faced the lake once more and flung one of the river stones across the surface. Satisfaction flared when he watched it skip one—two—three times before it sputtered and fell into the water on the fourth bounce, sinking with a _plunk_ sound. Draco tilted his head and tried again, weighing the second stone by tossing it up and down in his hand.

“Merlin, I do not want to think about N.E.W.T.s a second longer,” Pansy murmured.

Blaise came out of his doze to hum in agreement. “Little longer. Then we can be real adults instead of this half-adult-half-student life we’ve shoehorned ourselves into.”

“You should have just taken the exams at the Ministry, then,” Draco pointed out. “You could’ve been free as a bird.”

“But then I still would be waiting on you two to complete yours,” Blaise said. He shifted to lie on his back, tucking his hands behind his head. “Besides, I don’t need to be in a rush to work at Gringotts. I’m just looking forward to not sharing a dorm with four arseholes who fling their used socks everywhere.”

Draco snorted. “That’s not me, I already told you.”

He threw the second stone and perked up when it skipped four times.

“I’m happy for the end of term to take its time,” Pansy said. She kicked her foot and splashed Draco with a spray of water, grinning when he yelped. “Mummy’s agreed to hold off on marriage contracts until after. I’m planning on moving to London this summer to get a job at Witch Weekly.”

“Yeah?” Blaise asked. He pointed his wand at Draco and spelled him dry without Draco asking him to. “What about you, Draco?”

Draco threw another stone to buy himself a few extra seconds. He hadn’t told either of them outright yet. Potter was the only person other than himself that he’d been clear with. Draco knew he needed to start getting used to the idea of telling people, especially now that the application to the Auror Training Programme had been sent off. Potter came with him when he went to the Owlery to post his.

Draco turned his head to watch their reactions out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve applied to the Aurors.”

Pansy sat up straight and Blaise’s eyebrows shot up. Draco set his shoulders and faced them fully.

“That’s…wow,” Pansy said. Blaise echoed her sentiments.

“I know,” Draco said. “I’m not half bad with my wand, though. Potter’s D.A. sessions have helped.” He looked at Blaise and pursed his lips. “I don’t want to be shoehorned into anything. I make decisions for myself now.”

Blaise blinked and nodded at him. “Good on you. That’s brilliant.”

Draco relaxed at his friend’s support. He glanced at Pansy.

Her face pinched into a pug-like grimace that she’d grown out of in the last two years. Draco would still do it, even without her blessing, but somehow it felt important to have her believe in him, too.

She blew out a breath and made an aggravated sound. “You’d better not have developed some kind of complex, Draco.”

“Of course not, don’t be daft,” Draco said, feeling all of his affection for her rushing through him. “I like puzzles, that’s all. Besides, it’s nowhere near as glamorous as the career pamphlets would have you believe.”

“How would you know?” Pansy asked. “Merlin, you drive me spare sometimes.”

Draco shrugged. He turned back to the lake to toss the last of his stones. “It can’t be, or there’d be no shortage of Aurors right now. Everyone would want to be one instead of something sexier, like an Unspeakable.”

“So do that instead. Become a Healer.” Pansy flapped her hands at him when she spoke. “Don’t try to pretend you’re as reckless and senseless as the Gryffindors. I’ve overheard Finnigan and Weasley talking about their plans to join up, let them have at it.”

“It’s not like I would go straight from Hogwarts into the field as an Auror, Pansy,” Draco reasoned. “There’s a three year training programme, and after that they put you on a trial period before you earn your rank. And…it’s what I want to do.”

“Oh, _fine_ ,” Pansy said dramatically. She paused for a few moments and then her expression cleared. “I have an idea—we could move to London together! Let’s get a flat.”

“Alright,” Draco said agreeably. “If that’s what it takes to get you to believe in me.”

“I do believe in you, darling,” Pansy said seriously. “If it’s what you really want, then I believe in you.”

Draco relaxed once more and picked his way across the rocky bank to sit with her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and touched their temples together.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

They lazed on the lakeshore for another twenty minutes before Draco checked the time.

“Ugh,” he groaned. “We should be getting back. Granger’s scheduled revision for the eighth years is starting in the common room soon.”

Pansy made a sound of protest, her head resting on his shoulder. Blaise had fallen asleep at last. Draco jostled his shoulder and Pansy grumbled.

She hopped off her perch and shot a light Stinging Hex at Blaise to wake him up, cackling at the way he nearly jolted into the water when he sprung into consciousness. Draco smirked at their antics and the three of them strolled across the lawn to return to the castle, Blaise and Pansy sniping at each other the whole way.

“Oh, good, you’re just in time!” Granger said when they reached the common room. Everyone was already there.

Blaise had his bag with him and joined the group while Pansy flounced off to collect her things.

“I’ll just grab my notes,” Draco said, gesturing to the hall that led to the bedrooms. When he returned to the common room, the only available seat was next to Potter.

Draco concealed a sigh and took the seat and sat stiffly. Potter was sprawled across half the sofa, leaving Draco to press against the arm with perfect posture. Draco was distracted while Granger started them off, pointing to a chart she’d made and propped on an easel next to the hearth with recommended revision schedules. Her voice faded to the back of his mind when Potter shifted next to him. He smelled like sunshine and Draco wondered if he’d been napping outside or if he and Weasley had come from the pitch. Draco glanced furtively out of the corner of his eye and couldn’t tell just from looking at him; Potter’s wild nest of hair looked as unkempt as ever.

Potter was chewing on his lip while he read through his notes, glancing up occasionally to pay attention to Granger. He made marks on his notes occasionally. He touched the tip of the quill to his chin when he was distracted.

Draco tried to focus on his own notes, but half of his attention remained on Potter. Whenever Potter moved, Draco could feel the displacement of the air in the space between them. If things were different, then perhaps he could sit next to Potter and just enjoy being by his side without worrying what others might think. Draco wished it could be that way. He shook his head and Granger noticed.

“Do you disagree with something, Malfoy?” she asked.

Draco blinked and looked up at her. He could feel Potter’s eyes on him, too. Draco cleared his throat.

“No. I was—I had a mistake in my notes that I was correcting,” he said. “Continue, please.”

Granger turned back to her chart. Potter’s eyes still burned into the side of his face.

Draco ignored him and absorbed himself into revising for N.E.W.T.s.

*******

Harry didn’t know at all how to act around Malfoy after kissing him. It had been weeks and things remained awkward and tense when they were around each other. Malfoy seemed to want to just forget it ever happened, but Harry was never going to be able to ignore that kiss.

He began to panic about the things left unsaid between them as the end of the year drew nearer. Harry feared that he would lose the connection they had, even though they both applied to the Auror Training Programme. It was an irrational fear, but one he couldn’t escape all the same.

When he was meant to be revising he would get distracted, and then Hermione would flick his nose and reprimand him. He sheepishly apologised each time it happened; his nose began to grow sore from the amount of times he’d let his mind stray and earned another flick on his nose.

Harry was saved from the monotony of studying and cramming and worrying endlessly when Seamus bounced into the dorm he and Ron were in.

“Seamus,” Ron greeted. He was stretched diagonally across his bed on his back, holding a copy of _Quidditch Quarterly_ up to read.

“Ronald,” Seamus drawled in a faux-posh accent. “Harry. Listen, I’ve had a think and I want to have a big do for the end of the year to celebrate.”

“Another party?” Harry asked. Seamus had a few during the course of the year, but none where all of them were present.

“Yeah,” Seamus said enthusiastically. “I’ve already brought in what we’ll need. It’s stored in my trunk. C’mon, we all deserve a break.”

“Hermione would say ‘we’re supposed to be focused on the upcoming exams’,” Ron said in an impressive impersonation of his girlfriend.

“Yeah, but we’ve been working ourselves to the bone. I can’t look at Charms theory for another bloody second without taking a break,” Seamus pleaded.

“A break would be nice,” Harry said. He folded his hands behind his head and settled back on his pillows. “Just for one night—couldn’t hurt, right?”

“You’ve got to be the one to tell ‘Mione, not me, mate,” Ron mumbled, still partially focused on reading.

“You’d be the better hope of sweet talking her into it,” Seamus said. He waggled his eyebrows at Ron and laughed, diving out of the way when Ron fired off a Trip Jinx at him. Seamus bounced on the bed he landed on. “So, this weekend, then?”

“Yeah, alright,” Ron agreed. “Tell the others first and I’ll convince Hermione that it will refresh her to put the revisions on pause for a night.”

The party was a hit for all of the eighth years. Their frazzled looks of looming exams that would decide the fate of their lives faded away to cheerful smiles and flushed cheeks.

Harry stood near the fireplace and watched, grinning, while the Patil twins twirled each other around the room. They had their party in the common room and—true to his word—Seamus provided the alcohol. Ron and Hermione had gone down to the kitchens to ask the house-elves for snacks and Harry helped set up decorative spells to make everything festive. Ron had his wireless propped on the mantel and a song from the Weird Sisters was playing over the happy chatter.

Everyone looked happy and alive, and Harry took a second to appreciate that. The anniversary of the Battle had just passed and a sombre mood had clung to the castle for the entire week.

Harry changed out his empty Butterbeer bottle for a fresh one from the table. He happened to catch Malfoy’s eye when he brought it to his lips to take a swig. They remained locked in a stare for several seconds before Malfoy broke it and swept Parkinson into a dance alongside Padma and Parvati. Parkinson’s laughter was sharp and piercing as Malfoy twirled her with expert skill, even while his steps faltered and his cheeks flushed from how many drinks he’d had.

Harry sighed and looked around instead of watching them dance. He let himself get pulled into a conversation with Seamus and Terry Boot about an internship Boot was granted with the WWN. He told them about his plans to travel the continent for a month before his internship began.

Harry drifted through the party; he played a game of Exploding Snap with Ron and Hannah where they had to drink each time a card exploded and let Hermione pull him onto their makeshift dance floor where they both shimmied and jumped around out of time with the music, laughing until their stomachs hurt. The entire time, Harry was aware of where Malfoy was.

He couldn’t help it. His ears listened for Malfoy’s smooth laughter and the posh way his voice curled around his words. Malfoy was in the middle of a passionate debate on the Galleon’s worth against the Muggle pound when Harry finally gave in and drifted over to his side. Zabini was smirking at Malfoy; they stood in a half circle around the fire and Malfoy was gesturing wildly with his hands while he explained the economical benefits for wizards in the current economic climate.

“How do you even know about this stuff?” Harry asked when Malfoy slowed down enough to take a long pull from his beer.

He jumped slightly, seeming to realise that Harry was there and met Harry’s eyes. Malfoy’s were slightly glassy and his hair hung into his face. Harry wanted to reach out and brush it back for him, but he restrained himself.

“Mm, Father told me—said it’s important to understand the way money works,” Malfoy said, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth after swallowing. “When you understand it, then you can make it work for you.”

“But the market has changed so much in the last year, and that can only mean that the Galleon’s value might, too,” Goldstein said insistently.

Malfoy ignored him; his focus was completely on Harry. He watched helplessly as Malfoy took another long drink from his Butterbeer, lips perfectly wrapped around the bottle. Zabini said something to Goldstein that Harry didn’t catch; he was lost staring back at Malfoy.

“Want to go, Potter?” Malfoy blurted.

Harry blinked and slid a look at Zabini and Goldstein. Zabini had an eyebrow cocked and was looking Harry up and down.

“Really, Draco?” Zabini murmured.

Malfoy waved him off and grabbed Harry’s wrist. Harry felt dazed as Malfoy dragged him from the room to the shadows of the hall leading to the bedrooms. Malfoy’s fingers were warm where they wrapped around his wrist in a strong grip.

“What are we doing hiding over here?” Harry asked in a quiet hush. Malfoy put a finger against Harry’s lips to quiet him and tripped over his own feet into Harry’s space. “What are you doing, you barmy tit?”

“’M fixing it,” Malfoy mumbled, still coming closer.

“What?” Harry asked. He easily took a hold of both Malfoy’s wrists and held him steady when he wobbled. Malfoy leaned in and pressed their chests together, humming a relieved sound under his breath. “You’ve had a lot to drink, I think.”

“Haven’t,” Malfoy said.

Malfoy’s voice sounded far off and Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. Harry wondered if Malfoy could hear it. Christ, but he wanted to wrap his arms around Malfoy and drag him back to his bed. It felt so good to have his weight leaning against Harry. His nose brushed the side of Harry’s jaw and he took a deep inhale.

“Harry,” Malfoy whispered.

Harry shuddered in place. He heard laughter drift closer and herded Malfoy deeper into the shadows.

“Malfoy,” Harry said urgently when he felt Malfoy’s lips trace the same path his nose had taken. “Malfoy. Wait. You can’t—you don’t want to—”

“Shh, I do,” Malfoy insisted.

Malfoy’s tongue darted out to taste the corner of his mouth. Harry banged his head back against the wall and grimaced at the blooming pain. Malfoy scoffed and tried to get closer, his hands flexing to adjust Harry’s grip on his wrists.

“Want to,” Malfoy said.

“Let’s get you a Sobering Potion. C’mon, I know where Seamus keeps his stash of them,” Harry said. He put his arm around Malfoy’s waist to keep him upright and led the way to Seamus’s room. “After you’ve got a clear head we can, er, talk.”

Harry dug through Seamus’s trunk in search of the familiar bottle while Malfoy pawed at him. Harry ground his teeth together and forced a breath out through his nose. His cock was half hard and he just wanted to let whatever Malfoy had in mind happen. It didn’t have to mean anything. Only, he couldn’t face Malfoy’s regret once more, if Harry allowed him to remain so tipsy.

“Potter,” Malfoy whinged when he took too long. “Let’s go flying. I like your hair when we fly. It makes you look nice.”

Harry shook his head and finally found the potion he was looking for. He snatched the amber glass bottle and pulled the cork, handing it over to Malfoy.

“Here, this will make you feel better,” Harry said.

Malfoy eyed the potion warily, but obediently took it and knocked it back. Harry held his breath and counted the seconds in his head until the potion worked its way through Malfoy’s system.

Malfoy’s grey eyes cleared and he blinked several times. His eyes snapped to Harry, sharp and alert. He made a low sound in his throat.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Malfoy said.

“Er, yeah.” Harry coughed. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologising to me? I’m the one that just—did that,” Malfoy said, flapping his hand.

“I didn’t mind,” Harry said.

Malfoy stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“It doesn’t have to be—embarrassing, that is,” Harry said quickly. Malfoy’s look was an incredulous one. Harry bit his lip. “I just didn’t want you to do anything you’d regret while you weren’t sound of mind.”

“And what about you?” Malfoy asked. “You’ve had three or four yourself, haven’t you? You’re not entirely sober.”

Harry shrugged. “I had some water in between. I’m not as far gone as you…seemed to be.”

Malfoy covered his face with his hands. “Merlin, I can’t believe I—”

“I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you want,” Harry said in a rush. His face felt hot when Malfoy’s hands dropped away to stare at Harry once more. “I just—you’re with Parkinson, aren’t you? That’s why you dragged me into the shadows so no one would see, yeah?”

Malfoy shook his head. “I’m not with anyone. But I don’t want to—”

“It’s fine,” Harry said, lump in his throat while he cut Malfoy off once more. “I know. I figured you didn’t after...after—before. On patrol.”

“I can’t,” Malfoy said, turning from Harry and crossing his arms. “I shouldn’t want to,” he added, voice softer and weaker, like he was fighting with himself.

Harry’s stomach dropped out. “Shouldn’t want to?” he repeated. “I thought you didn’t want to at all. I didn’t know you—I thought you weren’t like me.”

Malfoy eyed him warily. “I’m—“ He took a ragged breath and shook his head. When he met Harry’s eyes again there was something burning in them that Harry wanted more of. “I want to kiss you again.”

Harry closed the distance between them in two quick steps, crashing their lips together. Malfoy made a broken sound and clawed at Harry’s shirt, gripping the material tightly in his fists while their mouths fit together in that perfect shape. Harry stumbled and threw an arm out to right his balance, holding onto a bedpost. One of Malfoy’s arms slipped around his waist and Harry’s fingers carded through his soft hair. Harry’s lips slid over Malfoy’s and the first kiss blended right into a second, and then a third. The entire time, Malfoy was like a storm against him, bowling Harry over with his intensity.

Harry broke the kisses to whisper against Malfoy’s lips. “Can—can we go back to my room?”

Malfoy’s eyes were liquid silver when he leaned back to look at Harry. His lips were plump and pink, slightly swollen from kissing him. Harry wanted him; he ached with it. His cock was fully hard now, pressing against the seam of his zipper. Harry held his breath and waited for Malfoy to answer.

Silently, Malfoy traced Harry’s bottom lip. Harry’s head swam; he was overcome with bursts of emotions and desire and the leftover buzz from the Butterbeer. He was right in the head, but he almost felt drunk on Malfoy—on his kisses, on his touch, on his taste on Harry’s tongue.

Harry parted his lips and closed them around Malfoy’s finger, curling his tongue around the pad and sucked on it. Malfoy’s breath gusted out of him harshly, his eyes glued to Harry’s mouth. Harry had only ever looked before, but he was willing—he would try anything Malfoy wanted, just to have it with Malfoy.

Harry sucked harder and Malfoy ripped his finger free with a gasp. He clamped his hand around Harry’s wrist once more and dragged him from the first bedroom to the third one where Harry slept. Harry stumbled after him, tossing a glance over his shoulder to see if anyone from the party noticed them.

When the door closed behind them, Malfoy pushed Harry against the door and caged him in with his arms, nosing along Harry’s jaw to mouth at Harry’s skin. He pressed a chaste kiss just under Harry’s ear and Harry made an involuntary sound of pleasure.

“Like that, do you?” Malfoy murmured. And, god, his voice was like honey, thick and smooth and sweet. Harry’s cock gave an enthusiastic throb in his jeans at the sound of it.

“Yeah,” Harry said roughly.

He reached around Malfoy and pulled his shirt out of his trousers and slipped his hands underneath to feel the expanse of Malfoy’s back, warm and strong under his palms. Malfoy hummed and kissed Harry again. Harry could still taste the minty aftertaste of the potion on his tongue when he sucked on it in an imitation of his trick from earlier. One of Malfoy’s hands dropped to Harry’s shoulder and squeezed.

Harry pulled Malfoy closer, slotting their hips together so that he could roll his hips against him. He could feel that Malfoy was hard, too. He slid his hands down to Malfoy’s hips and guided him into a rhythm that made the heat build in Harry’s gut.

“Shit, that’s good,” Harry mumbled between kisses. He sucked Malfoy’s lip into his mouth and dragged his teeth over it, earning a lovely keen from Malfoy.

Harry gripped his pert arse and massaged it, using his hold as leverage to rub against Malfoy.

“Potter, Merlin, you’re—” Malfoy said, his breath hot on Harry’s lips. He glanced down between them for a moment to watch their groins rutting together.

“You called me Harry before,” Harry blurted. He licked his lips when Malfoy looked at him, startled. “You…you can call me that. If you want.”

“I want to feel more of you,” Malfoy said. He pulled Harry away from the door and turned around. “Which one is yours?”

“By the window,” Harry answered. He wrestled his t-shirt over his head and flung it onto his trunk.

Harry walked up behind Malfoy and smoothed his palms over Malfoy’s chest and stomach, sliding one hand down to cup Malfoy through his trousers. Malfoy groaned and leaned back into Harry. His hips rolled against Harry’s hand and Harry massaged his prick through the barrier of clothes, kissing his neck.

“If you want to feel more you should get undressed,” Harry said, his voice low and smoky.

“Fuck,” Malfoy breathed. Harry could see a pink flush creeping up his neck. “Keep—I like how you’re talking.”

“You want me to tell you filthy things, Malfoy?” Harry murmured.

“Draco,” Malfoy said. “If we’re doing this, that is.”

“Draco,” Harry corrected, brushing his hair aside to take his ear between his teeth. Harry pressed a kiss to the lobe. “I want to touch you all over. Want me to make you come?”

“Yes,” Malfoy rasped.

“Clothes off,” Harry instructed. He popped the button on his jeans and walked over to the bed, sinking onto the edge. Harry kicked his trainers off and maneuvered them under the bed with his feet. He removed his glasses and folded the arms in before setting them down on the bedside table.

Malfoy was busy working his fingers through his tie with jerky movements.

“Come here,” Harry said and spread his knees wider.

Malfoy’s eyes flashed, but he came to stand between Harry’s legs. A tremor went through his body and Harry felt it when he ran his hands up the backs of Malfoy’s thighs. Harry leaned in and pressed his face to Malfoy’s stomach, rubbing his cheek over the expensive material of his waistcoat. Malfoy’s fingers ignored his tie in favour of skimming over Harry’s bare shoulders. When Harry looked up, Malfoy was staring at him with such reverence that his chest felt like it could crack open. He reached up and pulled Malfoy down into a kiss that Malfoy returned.

Harry’s fingers blindly opened the fastenings on Malfoy’s waistcoat and slipped open the buttons of his shirt. He tugged it free of Malfoy’s trousers and let it hang open while he smoothed his palms over the hard planes of Malfoy’s stomach and chest. He paused to tweak a nipple and broke away from the kiss to watch it harden. Malfoy’s eyes were dark and smouldering. Harry traced a path back down Malfoy’s front and over the buckle of his belt.

Together they undid it and when Malfoy was free of that, Harry made quick work of his trousers, eagerly pulling them down to leave Malfoy in just his black briefs. Malfoy was breathing heavily and Harry caught one of his hands when he saw them shaking. He looked up and met Malfoy’s eyes when he pressed a kiss to each fingertip and shifted to pull Malfoy onto the bed with him.

“Your turn,” Malfoy said in a hushed whisper.

His hands slid over the sparse line of hair leading into Harry’s jeans and he helped Harry the rest of the way out of his jeans and pants so that he was laying naked next to Malfoy. Harry’s stomach twitched and contracted when Malfoy ran his hands over every inch of him. Malfoy rolled over him and rutted against Harry’s hip with an impatient sound.

“So fit,” Malfoy grumbled into the skin of Harry’s neck.

“Like you aren’t, too?” Harry shot back. He scrambled to pull Malfoy’s pants down, getting half his arse exposed before Malfoy finally wiggled and helped Harry get them down his legs.

When their naked bodies melted together it was hot and smooth and _so fucking good_ that Harry worried he might come from the first brush of Malfoy’s cock against his. They groaned in unison as they began to move together, rubbing their cocks together until they were slick with precome.

Harry curled his body up around Malfoy’s; he hooked one of his legs around the back of Malfoy’s and keened when it made Malfoy’s cock slot more firmly against Harry’s.

Malfoy’s lips found his again with a frantic desperation as the pleasure built between them. His hands were squeezing Harry, gripping onto his hip and his shoulder as he moved against him with a wild abandon.

“Can’t—tell you—things—if you keep—kissing me,” Harry said between each brush of Malfoy’s lips.

Malfoy rumbled a laugh and mouthed his way down Harry’s neck, finding new sensitive spots to torture. Harry wormed a hand between their bodies and managed to grip both of their cocks together in one hand. When he squeezed the heads together, they both made broken sounds. It took some focus, but Harry started wanking them together, sliding their sensitive foreskins against each other in the tight hold of Harry’s fist. Malfoy leaned up on his elbows and pressed into Harry’s hand.

Malfoy was beautiful like this: his hair was flopping in his face, his cheeks were ruddy, and his mouth hung open with hedonistic abandon.

Each time he moved, there was a delicious drag of the silky skin of his prick against Harry’s.

Harry began to babble as the heat coiled in his gut. “Feel that? You’re rubbing against my cock. You feel so good like this.”

Malfoy moaned and rocked his hips harder, making jolts of bliss shoot through Harry.

“Wanted to do this with you before,” Harry said, squeezing his hand on their cocks and rolling up into Malfoy. “Wanted to know what you’d feel like. Had a dream about—about you sucking me—and your _mouth_ —”

Malfoy made a garbled sound and covered Harry’s lips with his own, kissing him fiercely. Malfoy batted Harry’s hand away and pulled it around him so that Harry was gripping his arse once more. He began to grind his hips against Harry’s in earnest and Harry matched his rhythm, both of them chasing a release.

It felt so good; both of their bodies were dotted with sweat that made them slide together. Harry could feel Malfoy’s arse flexing and contracting with each thrust. Pleasure was shooting up his spine each time Malfoy’s dick and balls dragged against his own, leaving him feeling like he was about to burst.

Malfoy dragged in a ragged breath and mouthed his way down Harry’s neck. He bit and sucked at the juncture where Harry’s neck met his shoulder and when he thrust up against him, Harry fell over the edge with a broken cry. His cock throbbed between them, pulsing and coating his stomach and Malfoy’s cock with come. Harry wrapped his arms tighter around Malfoy and squeezed him while Malfoy’s movements became jerky and uncoordinated. He slid one hand down Malfoy’s back and traced his fingertips over the crease of Malfoy’s arse. Malfoy tensed above him, biting down on Harry’s neck to muffle the sound he made and came all over him.

They were both panting when Malfoy collapsed against him in a heap of long limbs. His breaths were hot and damp against Harry’s neck. Harry felt blissed out and he floated on the edge of consciousness from a good orgasm. Malfoy’s fingers danced over Harry’s overheated skin, tracing around a nipple and exploring his armpit. Harry let out an embarrassing giggle and squirmed away.

“Ticklish,” he said.

Malfoy tugged at the coarse hair growing from his armpit in retaliation and rested his cheek against Harry’s chest. Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his hand up and down Malfoy’s back. He felt perfect in that moment, with the distant sounds of the party.

Just when Harry was about to fall asleep, Malfoy broke the comfortable silence.

“I should go,” he said, sitting up.

Harry stretched, arching off the bed while Malfoy got up. He scratched absently at his chest.

“I wouldn’t mind if you stayed,” Harry offered. He leaned over to the edge of the bed to fish his wand out of his jeans and cast a Cleaning Charm on both of them.

“Thanks,” Malfoy said. “And for—uh. This.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, huffing out a laugh. “You too.”

Malfoy dressed quickly and Harry got himself situated beneath the sheets, humming pleasantly. Malfoy hesitated by the door.

“Sure you don’t want to stay? It’s warm,” Harry said.

Malfoy looked at Harry; his hand was on the doorknob and his shoes were dangling from his fingers. He looked younger and softer, with his hair a mess and the buttons of his waistcoat undone. He looked well-fucked, too, with a healthy flush to his face. Malfoy gave a rueful shake of his head and opened the door.

“See you, Potter,” Malfoy said.

“Night,” Harry murmured.

*******

When Draco took his last N.E.W.T. he felt a wash of relief; he was finally done. He thought he did well on all of his exams—even Defense Against the Dark Arts. Maybe even especially on that exam, after all of Potter’s help.

He was optimistic that his hard work was going to pay off. All he needed to wait for was his letter from the Auror Training Programme.

Some of the other seventh and eighth years still had exams. Draco knew that Potter’s Potions practical was scheduled for the afternoon; he coached Potter through three of the potions they suspected would be on it. One of them was the potion Draco had to make in his exam the day before, so he knew the other two were likely candidates.

Draco stepped out into the courtyard beyond the Entrance Hall and took a deep breath. His schooling at Hogwarts was complete. He was transitioning, at last, from child to adult. Eighth year had been a strange dimension between adulthood and his childhood years as a student. He was looking forward to the next steps on his path.

Pansy found them a flat that they were going to move to in three weeks. Her mother was furious, but Pansy somehow convinced her that Draco was a good influence on her. Blaise already secured himself a position at Gringotts in the finance department.

Draco spotted Potter on one of the benches in the courtyard and walked over to him. He was scratching his head, hand buried in his thick dark hair, and he bit his lip while he stared at his notes. Draco leaned over his shoulder and read them.

“We’ve gone over that already, Potter,” Draco said.

Potter jumped and Draco grinned at him, satisfied.

“Just—just checking it over,” Potter said.

He met Draco’s eyes for a second before his gaze darted away. They haven’t said anything about their semi-drunken one off and Draco didn’t plan to talk about it with him—ever. He thought of it as his one night, the only one he’d ever get, probably. He locked it away in the back of his mind.

“You’ll be fine,” Draco said, getting Potter’s attention again. “Just remember what I said about the Boomslang skin.”

“Yeah,” Potter said gruffly.

“Good luck,” Draco said.

“Did you just finish your last one?” Potter asked.

“Yes. I was going to go sit by the lake for a bit,” Draco said. “Our time here is limited now.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the looming shadow of the castle behind him. When he turned around, Potter was looking up at it, too. A silent understanding passed between them. Perhaps all students felt the same way, but Draco could recognise it in Potter’s eyes. Hogwarts was like a home to him, and it felt strange to leave it.

“I’m glad I returned for eighth year,” Draco said.

Potter’s eyes slid to him. “Me too.”

“Let’s go flying later,” Draco said. “Come find me after your Potions exam.”

“Okay,” Potter agreed. He began to pack up his books and notes, stuffing them into his bag. “I’ll see you.”

Later, when Draco was curled up on a rock in the sun, Potter found him with both of their brooms in his hands. They flew together over the lake until the sun was dipping low behind the trees. Draco soaked up the last few minutes of the day by watching Potter fly so low his bristles were skimming the water, making ripples fan out behind him. Potter looked like everything he wanted, but couldn’t have—wouldn’t grant himself.

They walked back to the castle together. The back of their hands brushed once and Draco sucked in a breath. Every fibre in his being wanted to hold Potter against a tree and kiss him while he still smelled like the beginning of summer, but he let the moment pass. Potter shot him a tired smile.

“Now all that’s left is waiting for our letters from the Ministry,” he said.

Draco hummed. “You already know they wanted you before the term. The acceptance letter is just a formality.”

“You’re going to get one, too,” Potter said confidently. “You’d better, after all that work I did teaching you a good Disillusionment Charm,” he added with a playful edge to his voice.

The sky faded from orange to pink to purple and the first stars began to blink overhead where it was darkest. The air was humid; a storm would roll in overnight. Draco could smell it and he could just make out the way the leaves on the trees overturned, eager for rainwater.

The term would be over in two days.

In the morning, all of the eighth years were in high spirits. The exams were officially over and the common room was filled with a giddy atmosphere. They went down to the Great Hall as a group, all fifteen of them. Draco had an arm around Pansy’s shoulders and he could see Potter a few paces ahead. He was tucked against Weasley’s side where he and Granger sandwiched Weasley.

There was a sense of true camaraderie between their group; they were the ones that survived through it all, and got one last year to make their mark on Hogwarts.

As they sat down at a table in the Great Hall, Draco looked around at them. For all that they seemed young still, too green for the world, they were on the brink of stepping out into it to really start their lives.

A screech from an owl distracted him. He turned his eyes to the window and saw several post owls swoop in. They circled overhead and a thick letter with an official seal dropped onto Draco’s empty plate.

His stomach flipped over and Pansy gripped his arm in excitement.

“They’re here!” Pansy said.

Several more identical letters dropped onto their table—Potter, Weasley, and a few others received one. Potter and Weasley grinned at each other and Finnigan whooped loudly. Potter’s eyes met Draco’s across the table. He beamed at him and mouthed _told you so_. Draco rolled his eyes at Potter and picked up the letter.

With baited breath, he broke the seal. A ripple of magic rushed over him and he blinked. The letter flashed with a sparkle of green. _Identification magic_ , he thought, surprised. He unfolded the letter and quickly read it.

> _Dear Mr Draco Malfoy,_
> 
> _On behalf of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, and the Auror Department, it is with great pleasure that we inform you of your acceptance to the Auror Training Programme. Please arrive prepared with the enclosed list of supplies. You are to report for training on the first of August, 1999…_

The letter went on to detail more about the programme, but Draco couldn’t read any more of it. He was too excited and riding high on his success.

“I did it,” he murmured to himself.

“Of course you did, Draco,” Pansy said.

Draco looked over at Potter and Weasley, where they were celebrating raucously with Granger and the other Gryffindors.

Potter caught his eye and winked at him, grinning broadly. Draco nodded back and held up his letter with a smile.

He was pleased that he and Potter would be together at the Auror Academy. Draco wouldn’t have to face his future alone, and he got to keep Potter—even if it was just as his friend.


	4. PART 3 — OCTOBER, 2003

**PART 3 — OCTOBER, 2003 — SOME THINGS ARE MEANT TO BE**

Harry walked off the lift on Level 2 into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement clutching a small potted plant in one hand and a leather satchel full of case files and reports in the other. He nodded to the other Ministry employees as he strolled toward the entrance to the Auror department.

He pulled a wry face when he checked the pocket watch the Weasleys gifted him for his seventeenth birthday. It was five minutes to the hour and Draco was going to call him out for being late. _Again_. Harry snorted and shifted the weight of his satchel in his hand, gripping the sturdy leather between his fingers. Aurors were considered to be on time getting to work by nine o’clock according to the Code of Conduct Handbook. Draco, however, insisted on arriving precisely fifteen minutes early; he swore it was the proper professional standard. He loved to lord it over Harry’s head that, of the two of them, _Draco_ was the better Auror based on his punctuality and professionalism. Of course, Harry never complained when Draco also _left_ fifteen minutes early at the end of day.

Still, he wouldn’t change things. He looked forward to seeing Draco every morning and just as often after work.

It felt like they had been together forever at that point, even though it had only been a little over three years since their eighth year at Hogwarts ended. Together, side-by-side, they’d stepped into the world and officially put their school days behind them. It felt like they were on the brink of something, back then, when they were just getting started together and making up for lost time. Harry and Draco were essentially inseparable in training. Ron and their fellow trainees used to make jokes about how they were attached at the hip—although, when Ron was pissed on cheap gin and sodas he would also say they were attached in another way: _arse-to-sac_. Draco always blushed a deep pink whenever he said it, making indignant little sounds while Harry just laughed and slung an arm over Draco’s shoulders to tug him closer, his cheeks warm with drink.

They talked about moving in together once or twice in the last year, but they could never agree on living arrangements. Harry was stubbornly attached to Grimmauld Place after the work he had put into his garden, and Draco just wanted an excuse to go house shopping so that he could drag Harry through an endlessly rotating carousel of luxury flats. Harry smiled fondly at the memory of when he had given into Draco’s incessant whinging; they ended up at Draco’s cosy flat at the end of the day and both of them fell asleep together on the sofa, lulled by the warmth of the roaring fire and the feel of their socked feet nudging against one another.

He glanced down at his potted plant once more and grinned to himself, recalling the warm, balmy days of the summer, when Draco would come over to revise for certification exams with him and laze barefoot in the shade of the oak tree with the top two buttons of his shirt undone while Harry tended to his plants, murmuring quietly to them. Now that they were Aurors it was no different; the only change was that they would pour over case notes and interview logs instead of tactical theory and investigative case studies.

Harry longed for summer to return, but the weather changed quite abruptly at the end of September, announcing autumn’s arrival. He reminded himself to get Hermione or Draco to help him renew the weather regulation charm for the garden so that he could still enjoy the time he spent with his plants.

Harry turned down a corridor that led to the Auror offices, passing the entrances for Improper Use of Magic and Wizengamot Administration Services along the way.

Harry and Draco just made the rank of Auror three months ago, finally earning their stripes and warrant cards.

Training had been a grueling programme that took three years to complete, but at the end Harry had graduated near the top of the class with flying colours. Only Draco bested him for the top spot. The group of graduates had then been put on the Junior Patrol squad for a probationary period as they were transitioned into the official Auror force.

It wasn’t necessarily as exciting as Harry’d expected right off the bat: so far, their most thrilling case was an illegal possession charge that turned out to be a minor potions trafficking ring amongst the residents of St Oswald’s Home for Old Witches and Wizards. The home’s eldest resident, Poppy MacDonald, was heading it, building an empire for herself in the home for the elderly. They’d cracked the case and managed to solve and close it within a week.

There was a part of Harry that was glad being an Auror wasn’t always going to be about chasing down Dark wizards and living in the limelight, as he’d sometimes feared during training. In fact, the majority of Auror work so far seemed to be spent filling out and filing reports and paperwork. His satchel was full of them, and they only had two open cases at the moment.

Harry was lucky that Draco had a meticulous knack for detail, and better handwriting to boot; he always checked over Harry’s reports for him when they went home for the day. It saved him when the tedium began to set in and made their work seem dull and lackluster.

“Mornin’, Harry,” greeted Savage, a member of the Senior Auror team, tipping the wide brim of his hat in Harry’s direction.

Harry raised his potted plant in an approximation of a wave, nodding to Savage. As he rounded the corner to the Auror cubicles—which stood in a grid formation in the open space outside of the Head Auror’s office—Harry saw that Draco was already seated at his desk, early as usual. Harry was never going to beat him to work, no matter how hard he tried. It was a slight competition between them, the one candle that still burned brightly from the old days despite their friendly partnership.

He pulled a wry face and closed the distance between them, plopping his little green houseplant onto the desk situated on his side of the cubicle. He spent a moment arranging it next to the framed photographs of Hermione, Ron, and himself and various Weasleys and friends, beaming down at it.

Harry’d spliced it from a cutting of one of his flourishing windowsill succulents at home and was proud to see it grow into its own plant. He’d nurtured his green thumb as often as he could manage in the years since Hogwarts and was turning Grimmauld Place into a veritable jungle in the name of therapy. Succulents were his favourite: they were low-maintenance and were hearty survivors. They were the easiest for Harry to care for and cultivate. Having so many plants around and being able to work with his hands brought him so much peace; it was a huge help on days when the memories and lingering grief from the war grew to be too much.

“Is that from your infamous _garden_ , Potter?”

Harry shot a distracted look over his shoulder at Draco. “And so what if it is? I grew this one from one of the others. Raised it from a seedling, pretty much.”

Draco snorted and swiveled in his chair to face him. There was a half-full cup of tea on his desk; plumes of steam were rising from it. Harry could smell the fragrant notes of bergamot in it. Draco swore by a proper cup of Earl Grey to start his day, and when he didn’t get it he became a whinging thorn in Harry’s side.

“Can it pay rent and pop off to the shop for groceries?” Draco asked archly.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, exasperated.

“Look at you, Potter. Still sticking your fingers in the mud, just like an ickle lamb still in nappies,” Draco teased lightheartedly. He flashed a look at Harry that was warm and open. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head and relaxed.

Harry liked him that way—better than the uptight plonker Draco’d been in training, too worried he was going to be kicked out of the programme every thirty seconds because he hadn’t fought with the rest of them in the war, which was utter Hippogriff shit in Harry’s opinion. Harry was glad he had begun to mellow out since earning his Auror stripes and being assigned as his partner. They made a good team together.

“It’s therapeutic,” Harry insisted. He set down his leather satchel and tapped his wand twice against the shrunken files inside, removing each one and placing them in separate piles on his desk when they returned to normal size. “You should try it sometime. I bet if you told your Mind Healer that you gave it a go she’d go bloody bonkers and ask you to start journaling about that, too.”

Harry shot Draco a cheeky grin and sat at his desk, earning a paltry, weak Stinging Hex to his nose for his snark. Harry could never tell when Malfoy was comfortable talking about the Mind Healer that he saw regularly.

“Wanker,” he directed at Draco.

“You deserved it,” Draco said. “Did you finish the report you took with you yesterday—the one for the Davies and Montague domestic quarrel?”

Harry rubbed at his tingling nose and reached out to rotate his succulent slightly so that he could see it from a better angle. He opened the report he had been reading while eating his toast with tea before arriving at work and surveyed the parts he’d left blank.

“Nearly,” he said. “I’ve the last section to fill in, and then you can check it over and tell me all of the parts I filled out wrong. I know how much you love that part.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Draco said as he selected a ridiculous, oversized peacock feather quill from a garish looking clay cup on his desk that Teddy made for him at primary school. It was hideous, but Harry knew Draco cherished the gift. Teddy had been so proud when he presented the handmade pot. “I’m the only one allowed that privilege.”

“You’re definitely privileged, that’s for sure,” Harry said mockingly. He ticked off the last few boxes and signed off on the report, holding it out for Draco to take. “Here.”

Their fingers brushed when Draco grabbed the folder. Draco’s were warm, likely from holding the steaming cup of tea sitting at his elbow. Harry ducked his head to hide a shy smile, his cheeks prickling with a flush of heat from the brief contact, a distant memory floating up in his mind of a semi-drunken fumble from ages ago. It was always like this; being in training together had been a nightmare on days when they had to physically spar. Harry wondered if Draco ever thought about what had happened between them at Hogwarts.

He was saved when a fresh file jacket appeared in the tray for public report claims. There was a small yellow sticker in the bottom corner that the Ministry had developed as a way to harness Portkey magic for inter-departmental memo and file sharing.

Harry opened it and sighed when he read the first few lines.

_Fletcher Henry fired a Hair Loss spell at Arthur Hawkins for ‘failing to remove the rubbish from his Apothecary from the shared alley behind their shops’. Hawkins retaliated with the Hurling Hex and physically assaulted Henry with fisticuffs._

_Fletcher Henry, 58, owner of Fletcher & Sons Oddities and Entities in Diagon Alley._

_Arthur Hawkins, 42, owner of Toiled Apothecary Supply in Diagon Alley._

_Report created on Tuesday the 17th of October. Claim recorded by Amara Alvarez, Claims Dispatch Witch for the DMLE._

“We’ve got another dispute between shop owners on Diagon,” Harry said. “One’s that new magical pet rescue and the other is the neighbour, Toiled Apothecary.”

“Oh good,” Draco said, perking up. “Maybe we’ll get to crack some skulls.”

Harry snorted and scrubbed a hand over his face, bumping his glasses up high on his forehead. “I never should have let you watch The Breakfast Club. John Hughes has ruined you. What was I thinking?”

“I believe you mentioned something along the lines of Muggle education, bonding time as partners, and Muggle pop culture references,” Draco said. He signed the report with a flourish of his quill and tapped his wand on the corner with a non-verbal ink-drying spell that he used on all of their completed paperwork.

“I just didn’t want to have to watch another game show without you knowing any of the answers. It puts me off the reports we’re meant to be writing,” Harry lamented, slouching in his swivel chair and swinging himself back and forth. He yelped when Draco caught him with another mild Stinging Hex. “Oi, enough of that.”

“Then get to work on that new claim,” Draco said. He picked up his tea and eyed Harry over the rim. “Let me finish this. By the time I’m done, you should have the preliminary notes down, and then we can go down to Diagon Alley to question the shop owners.”

Harry sometimes couldn’t believe that the Ministry had wanted to fast track him straight into the Auror ranks directly out of Hogwarts when all it meant was him endlessly filing paperwork rather than being out in the field. He’d refused the offer, anyway, wanting to go through the training programme like everyone else to avoid special treatment. Draco was fond of making sure to never let Harry live it down.

Harry pulled out the small notebook he kept on his person for jotting down notes in the field and fished a biro from a squat, wonky shaped vase that sort of matched the mug on Draco’s desk. It was another gift from Teddy. Harry had one of Teddy’s eccentric creations housing his Floo powder, too. He moved the case file for the pair of teenagers they’d busted last week for smoking Gillyweed spliffs behind the Leaky Cauldron and reached for a blank form from the numerous trays of paperwork cluttering his desk.

As Harry took down the preliminary details of the claim, Draco picked up the folder. Harry heard him snort into his tea.

“He’s bald now? And for that, Hawkins punched him. As if the Hurling Hex wasn’t quite enough,” Draco mused. “This is not what I expected when I decided to become an Auror.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. He dropped his pen back into the kitschy pot on his desk and stood. “Apparate to the public coordinates?”

Draco grinned, setting down his empty cup and retrieving his uniform cloak from where it hung on the wall. He twirled the scarlet fabric around himself with an overly dramatic flair and Harry watched, amused, as the cloak settled. He would swear to anyone who listened that Draco had cast a delayed _Descendo_ on it to make it flutter when he walked. Draco claimed he had no idea what Harry was talking about, that was just how the material fell. Harry preferred to work without the cloak, feeling that it just got in his way. Instead, he wore the double-breasted style uniform that somewhat resembled a wool coat, with a longer coat tail.

“Do you think Henry knows that if he messes with bulls he gets their horns?” Draco asked, expression full of mirth.

Harry groaned and started walking towards the DMLE’s authorized personnel Apparition Points—a row of broom cupboards that were repurposed after the war to allow for travel in and out of the DMLE department offices by Aurors and approved staff. He didn’t wait to see if Draco was following him.

“I’m never letting you watch films with me ever again,” Harry tossed over his shoulder.

“But I loved that film, Potter!” Draco squawked in protest. Harry could hear the flap of his cloak as he strode to catch up. He was glad to be facing away so he could hide his amused expression.

“Well, you’re on probation, then,” Harry declared. Draco huffed behind him, muttering under his breath.

They reached Apparition Cupboard No. 3 and nodded to each other before entering, their banter dropping off in favour of a unified professional front. They Disapparated one after the other to their destination, ready to take care of another incident for their arrest records.

****

*******

Harry shaded his eyes from the rare sunshine beaming down on his garden at Grimmauld Place. He was taking full advantage of the unseasonably warm Saturday and planned to spend as much of it as he could outdoors. He knelt amidst a tangle of green leaves and colourful blooms from his different plant species, raising a hand to mop up the beads of sweat clinging to his forehead and swiped a clump of his dark hair back from his face.

Harry smiled down at his honking daffodils; they were thriving between his Dirigible Plums and Bouncing Bulbs. Harry carefully stroked a finger lightly over the vibrant, veined leaves.

“I bet this warm weather has got you all thirsty,” Harry said, humming while he held his wand at an angle and splashed cool water from an Aguamenti charm over the greenery. “My friends are all coming round later for dinner. We’ve plans to listen to the Chudley Cannons versus the Wimbourne Wasps on the WWN. Ron remains steadfastly hopeful for the Cannons to take the League Cup, but we all know what bollocks that is.”

He chuckled to himself as he moved to another cluster of plants, this time a section of herbs Luna had made him plant. She’d gone on about good omens and natural Nargle repellent. Harry honestly had only paid half an ear to her ramblings.

The plants swayed under the weight of water, leaning back and forth as if they were dancing. Harry shuffled on the ground, shifting further down the row he was tending to.

“Drink up. We’ll make sure you grow big and strong,” Harry said, a proud joy spreading through him.

Harry ambled around the garden, talking to the plant life while he watered them. When he was finished making the rounds in the garden, he was warm and sun-kissed. He lifted the hem of his t-shirt, the words _Auror trainee_ emblazoned across it in bold block lettering, and swiped it across his forehead. He plucked his spectacles off the bridge of his nose and cleaned the smudges on them with a delicate tap from his wand.

Harry stretched his arms over his head, slowly arching back and groaning as each knob of his spine gave a satisfying _pop_. He let his arms swing down and started toward the house, the heat of the afternoon sun at his back.

When Harry entered the kitchen to begin rummaging for ingredients to cook dinner with, the Floo flared bright green and Ginny and Luna stepped into the room, one after the other. Harry opened the storage cupboard and squinted at the food he had on hand.

“Hello, Harry,” Luna greeted in her dreamy lilt.

“Hi Gin, Luna.” Harry nodded over his shoulder at them as they each took a seat at the rough-hewn table. “What do we fancy for dinner: spag bol, or cottage pie?”

He turned back to his pantry and scratched the side of his jaw.

“Cottage pie, but only if you do it the way mum does,” Ginny said decisively. Luna murmured an agreement.

Harry flicked his wand to Summon what he would need to put dinner together and turned back to the table, the ingredients bobbing along behind him. Ginny whispered something in Luna’s ear and put her head down on Luna’s shoulder, smiling into her neck. Luna rubbed her cheek against the top of Ginny’s head and shot Harry a bright smile that he returned.

Ginny sat back up and drew her wand. She pointed it at the cupboard above the sink, where Harry always hid the good biscuits, and a box of Jammie Dodgers zoomed into her open hand. Harry narrowed his eyes at her.

“You’ll ruin your dinner with those,” he pointed out.

Ginny shrugged unapologetically; she had a biscuit in her hand already and was offering the box to Luna. “You always keep the good biscuits in the house. Mum’s hidden every box I bring in.”

Harry snorted and held his palm out. Ginny placed two raspberry biscuits in his waiting hand. He supposed he was lucky she hadn’t found his hidden stash of custard creams yet. He munched on the buttery, sweet biscuit and leaned a hip against the table.

“How are your Gillyweed plants doing, Harry?” Luna asked. She blinked up at him with her big, sparkling eyes. Harry definitely saw what Ginny saw in Luna—her eyes were something beautiful to get lost in, and she had a pretty curve to her lips.

“Brilliant,” Harry said proudly. “The soil nutrients Neville sent over really helped them grow.”

“The Nargle infestation seems to be much more under control now,” Luna said sagely, nibbling another corner of her biscuit.

Harry smiled affectionately at her. He ate the last of his biscuit and walked over to the butcher-block counter, surveying the food he’d pulled out. He ended the Stasis Charms and aimed his wand to turn on the radio in the corner. One of the music programs filled the room as Harry set the vegetables to wash and chop themselves with magic.

“Kreacher,” Harry called.

The house-elf appeared with a faint _pop_. Harry was typically alone at Grimmauld Place; Kreacher preferred to stay at Hogwarts throughout the week, but would come round at the weekend to look after Harry. They had reached an agreement after the war that suited both of them, and as a result they both got along more civilly.

“Master Harry is needing Kreacher,” the house-elf said in a rasping voice.

Harry worried about his age and his health, but Hermione and Draco both assured him that Kreacher had many years left in him.

“Yeah, can you fetch some potatoes for us, please?” Harry requested.

Though Harry preferred to do the cooking himself, Kreacher was happier and more settled when Harry, as his Master, gave him a few commands to make him feel useful.

Kreacher’s large, bat-like ears twitched and flapped—a sign that he was pleased—and he disappeared and returned shortly after with a hulking bag of potatoes weighing him down. “Kreacher is bringing Master Harry the potatoes.”

“Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry said, smiling as he took the bag. He set it down in front of Ginny and Luna. “Peel these, would you?”

“I thought you were going to cook for us,” Ginny said with a sly quirk to her mouth. “If I’d wanted to be dragged into labour I would’ve stayed at the Burrow. Mum’s always lecturing me on how I’ll never be able to settle down if I can’t cook.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and shot Luna an exasperated, fond look. Harry’s heart swelled with the same affection he felt when he watched Ron and Hermione together. He loved his friends dearly, and was so happy that they were able to find what they needed in each other.

The Floo activated once more and Hermione’s swath of curls poked through before she emerged.

“Ron’s right behind me,” she said as she brushed away errant soot. Harry really needed to get the fireplace serviced. Hermione’s eyes caught on the box of Jammie Dodgers on the table. “Best hide those before he gets here if you want there to be any left for tea and afters.”

Ginny didn’t have time to even blink before Ron was bustling into the kitchen, exiting the Floo and making a beeline for the table. He zeroed in on the box of biscuits and his whole face brightened.

“’lo—are those the raspberry ones?” Ron swiped them from Ginny, and she shot him a mutinous look. Ron stuffed a buttery cookie into his mouth in one go and sighed in delight. “Merlin, that’s so good,” Ron mumbled around his mouthful. Hermione flicked him on the shoulder and moved to sit down with the girls. Ron ambled over on long legs to stand next to Harry at the counter. “Mate, I have a double or nothing for ten Galleons on today’s match with George.”

Harry snorted and clapped Ron on the shoulder. His faith in the Cannons was unwavering. There was no chance that they would win the Quidditch match. “George is going to be raking it in, then. How generous of you to fill his pockets that way. Business must be good.”

“Business is always good,” Ron said and waved Harry off. “And besides, the Cannons changed the lineup. They’re going to do it this season, Harry. I can _feel_ it.”

“Sure, Ron,” Harry patronized teasingly.

Ron flipped two fingers at him and muttered under his breath. The girls laughed at something they were discussing at the table behind them, and the song changed to an upbeat, jazzy tune with magic trumpets and horns. Harry waved his wand and bottles of beer floated out of his ice box. He popped the cap on his and Ron’s and directed the other bobbing bottles toward the girls. The atmosphere was wonderfully relaxed as they chatted and drank their beers. Everyone pitched in a little to help Harry make their cottage pie, and when it was cooking in the oven he joined them at the wooden table.

“Turn the wireless up, I want to hear Lee’s introduction,” Ron said.

“You do it, you’re closer.” Harry smirked and leaned back in his chair.

“Closer—you have a bloody _wand_ ; closer makes no difference,” Ron complained, just to whinge. He slid his wand out and angled it over his shoulder at the radio. “Lazy sod.”

“Love you, too,” Harry said cheekily, winking at his best friend. Ron blew him a kiss right before Lee Jordan’s boisterous voice filtered out of the radio speakers.

“ _Ladies and laddies, gentleman and young girls, welcome to today’s Quidditch match between the Chudley Cannons and the Wimbourne Wasps! The season is just getting off to the start, the players are all still dragging themselves from their beds and missing their summer holidays, and I am looking forward to another excellent Quidditch season! Gather round those radios, good people, you’re in for an exciting ride today_ ,” Jordan announced in a familiar, animated voice.

Harry stood to take the cottage pie from the oven and set it on the counter to cool.

“Ron I think I want in on your bet with George,” Ginny said. When Harry turned back to the group, she had her arm slung over Luna’s shoulder and a smirk on her face. “I like the odds.”

“You know professional players aren’t allowed to gamble,” Ron said, tossing the crumpled wrapper from his beer at her. Ginny swatted it away, laughing. “Even if you’re only on the reserves, you’re still in the pro league.”

Ginny had recently been signed to the Holyhead Harpies as a reserve Chaser. They were looking to move her up to the main team lineup by the end of the season. The whole family was proud of her; Ginny was very excited to finally fly for them.

“Yeah, but it’d be worth it to see your face when you’re out forty Galleons to me _and_ George.” Ginny snorted and slumped against Luna’s side, a happy expression on her face.

Ron waved off her friendly ribbing and took another swig from his bottle. Hermione patted Ron’s arm and he turned to her, smiling softly while he tucked some of her hair behind her ears.

“They’ll win and then you and George and everyone will see,” Ron said resolutely.

“Ron, remind me of the Muggle saying I taught you about the definition of insanity,” Hermione said sweetly, hiding her smirk against his shoulder.

“Betrayal from all sides!” Ron cried dramatically, slumping against the table, pretending to act out being wounded and dying while the rest of them giggled.

“I believe in your team, Ron,” Luna said. Harry and Ginny shared a sympathetic look, both biting their lips to keep from laughing harder.

Lee’s opening announcements and messages from the sponsors continued in the background while they all bantered good-naturedly. Ron got up to bring dinner to the table and Hermione served them all neat slices with efficient flicks of her wand.

Harry, Ginny, and Ron all kept half an ear on the match while they ate and chatted.

“How are the research trip plans coming, Luna?” Hermione asked.

Luna brightened. “Wonderfully. We leave for expedition next Wednesday. I do hope we’ll be able to find the species Mr Scamander suspects is going to be in Nepal.”

Luna and the naturalist, Rolf Scamander, had been working together to discover new species and continue the work of Scamander’s grandfather, the famous Newt Scamander.

“Your new findings and research paper will be so helpful for the creature-wizard relations,” Hermione said. She and Luna shuffled closer together to discuss Hermione’s work at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

“And the Wasps Chaser, Bell, has put the Quaffle through the goal again for another stretch in their already big lead,” Lee’s voice crackled over the wireless and Ron leaned closer, narrowing his eyes.

“C’mon, Hayes, you bloody toss-pot!” Ron grumbled. “You’re meant to be a skilled Keeper!”

“Just face defeat now, Ron,” Ginny said with a sly smirk. “Besides, you know how good Katie Bell is.”

Harry put a comforting hand of solidarity on Ron’s shoulder. “Better luck next time, mate.”

“Oh come off it, the game isn’t even half over yet!” Ron insisted.

“Even if they catch the Snitch, they’re still over a hundred seventy-five points behind,” Harry said sympathetically. The Cannons were in truly bad form as Lee’s game commentary went on. “Might as well owl George the Galleons now.”

When their plates were empty and the cottage pie was gone, Hermione produced a treacle tart from her beaded bag, steaming under the Stasis Charm. Harry immediately recognised the decadent smell of Mrs Weasley’s baking. Ron was reaching for the puddings and Ginny swatted his hands away.

“Tea?” Harry offered, already moving to Summon cups from the cupboard.

As they ate, Luna was telling them more about her trip. She mentioned a book that made Harry’s memory snag on something Draco had told him.

“Malfoy said something about a book like that,” Harry said, remembering Draco bringing it up at the office. “He said every family had one, but that it never passed to Narcissa’s branch of the Black family, so he supposed it must be here somewhere at Grimmauld Place.”

“Did you look in the library for it?” Luna asked.

“Yeah, but I didn’t find it,” Harry said. “Tried Regulus’s bedroom, too, after I asked Kreacher about it.”

“Why don’t you look for it in Sirius’s room?” Hermione suggested with a thoughtful expression. “I think I remember something matching that description from the first time we started moving stuff up there for storage.”

Harry hummed and tried to remember everything that was put up in Sirius’s childhood bedroom. “Yeah, I guess I’ll take a look tonight.”

Harry’s friends stayed for tea and eventually bid him goodbye late in the afternoon. He hugged Hermione close, her thick spiral hair tickling his nose, and Ron wrapped his long arms around both of them, squeezing them in a bear hug.

“See you on Sunday for lunch,” Ron said, voice muffled into Harry’s hair.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed as he pulled out of the hug.

Hermione and Ron waved one last time to Harry before stepping into the Floo one after the other.

Harry stretched his arms over his head for a few satisfying beats. He let his arms drop and climbed the steps so he could look for Draco’s book.

Harry paused outside of the door to Sirius’s bedroom when he reached it.

He hadn’t gone inside in a while; he preferred to leave it as it was as a way to remember Sirius. Harry had updated other parts of the house, creating a more comforting atmosphere to live in and removing some of the dusty and moldering old furniture and dreary hangings. Anything that seemed worth something to Harry, he’d placed in Sirius’s old bedroom. Grimmauld Place no longer resembled a haunting mausoleum, but was now a cosy estate with plump leather furnishings and soft carpets covering the gleaming wood floors.

He took a deep breath and turned the handle, letting the door swing in to reveal the room. It smelled slightly musty, a result of being cut off from the natural airflow of the house. Hermione had told Harry he had to keep renewing the air freshening spells, but he always forgot about it.

Harry stepped in and glanced around, his mouth quirking at Sirius’s Muggle posters and walking over to the bureau where he’d displayed the letter from his mother in a frame. Harry’s fingers ghosted over it before he turned to survey the room.

He wasn’t exactly sure where he might find a Black family book of spells for the home, so he opted to begin on one side of the room and work his way around until he came across it. Harry rifled through a stack of books, moved an intricately patterned antique statue that looked like it came from somewhere in Asia and changed shapes each time Harry angled it differently, and went through an old trunk full of odds and ends.

He came across a multitude of magical artefacts and old possessions that Harry had forgot about after storing them in the unused bedroom. Going through it all had Harry pausing every so often to examine what he’d come across more closely, fascinated by some of the history behind the items.

He sat on the bed and shuffled through a picnic basket he’d discovered under Sirius’s bed frame. Harry had an old photo of his dad and Sirius from when they were quite young in one hand, and a handwritten faded roll of parchment in the other hand. He squinted, trying to read what it said.

He thought it might be a letter from his father to Sirius—the print was so similar to his own that it made Harry’s heart lurch a bit in his chest. He hadn’t expected to potentially find more of his unknown history while going through Sirius’s things.

[Harry set the photograph down and spread the parchment out carefully on the bed. It was yellowing in some spots, and one corner had what Harry was pretty certain was an old stain from food. As he tilted his head and tried to decipher the scrawled missive, it clicked.](http://caroll-in.tumblr.com/post/172443372724)

“A recipe,” Harry murmured to himself.

He leaned closer over the paper and traced down the list of ingredients and instructions with one finger. He could make out directions for cooked ginger, onion, and garlic, and his stomach began to rumble despite eating a hearty dinner earlier.

There was a note near the bottom that seemed to be addressed to Sirius that made Harry’s stomach swoop. Had he just found another letter from his parents to Sirius? He made a mental note to remind himself to firecall Hermione to ask her help with any spells that would make the faded note more legible—perhaps one of her deciphering or translation spells.

> _Little Siri,_
> 
> _I know how much you’ve enjoyed Sunday supper at our house. Euphemia told me to write my family’s recipe down for you so that you’ll be able to ask your mother to have your family’s house-elves make it for you while we are away on holiday. Perhaps your babba and ma will let you help the way my ‘Mia lets you and James assist her when she cooks. Be well, Sirius, and keep smiling._
> 
> _— F. Potter_

Harry blinked and read the note a second, and then a third time. He realised belatedly that he was breathing quickly, his hands trembling. It was the same feeling he remembered when he’d first found his mother’s letter to Sirius. He stared down at the forgotten letter in wonderment and a broad, joyful grin broke across his face.

Harry might not have been searching for it, but he’d just found another long-lost piece of his own past.

Harry wasn’t exactly sure who _F. Potter_ was, exactly, but if he was talking about James and Sirius together, then he was sure that this person was likely directly related to him.

He jumped up and dashed from the room, joy bursting through him. He left the basket forgotten on the bed. He had to call Hermione to get one of the spells she’d written to restore old texts.

*******

Later in the workweek, Harry still had the recipe he’d found on his mind. It was tucked away in the inside breast pocket of his Auror robes; he kept patting his chest to feel it folded up beneath the fabric. Harry was going to show it to Draco, when he got the chance.

Their week had been filled with endless tasks—the ever-present paperwork high on the list. Draco was striding down the hall slightly ahead of Harry as they walked through the department to the warded interview rooms. One of their suspects was taken in that morning and had just cleared booking.

Draco pulled up short outside of Interview Room Five and turned in profile to Harry with a ghost of a smirk dancing at the corners of his lips. Harry returned the look in full, shaking his head and shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets.

“Don’t,” Harry said, though he knew there was no use. Draco was absolutely going to do what he suspected.

“Don’t be a lump, Potter. Come on,” Draco said. He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Bad cop, worse cop?”

Draco looked at him with a delighted expression, pleased with himself for his cheek. Harry grinned—despite the exasperation he felt—and shook his head ruefully, resigned to his life as Malfoy’s partner. It was his own fault, he knew.

Harry’d somehow got it into his head that it would be a cracking good idea to let Draco watch a slew of Muggle police films. Draco had complained at the choice at first, whinging about wanting to watch another fantasy film to laugh about how Muggles portrayed dragons, but he’d got weirdly sucked into the convoluted storylines of the ones Harry had picked out. He’d sat there, barely eating the popcorn Harry had popped for him, staring wide-eyed at the small television screen as the police partners faced off with their suspects in a shoot out.

Harry’s plan had only been to show Draco how the Muggle justice system worked in comparison to the Aurors at the DMLE, but ever since that movie night Draco was a horror—constantly quoting awful lines and bad practices based on the films. Somewhere along the line, Harry’s plan completely backfired on him, and now he was dealing with the consequences.

“You can’t actually follow through with that; it’s against protocols,” Harry pointed out, pursing his lips when Draco tipped a flat look in his direction. “Besides which, it’s ‘good cop, bad cop’.”

“Yes, but you’re not a very good one yet, are you? You’ve barely solved anything major—all that we’ve done of note is crack down on a business-minded elderly witch,” Draco said with a gesture of his hand. “So—bad cop, worse cop? Let’s say we rile Mr Tenley up a bit? Get under that sallow skin and find the answers we need?”

Harry already felt his resolve crumbling. Draco was actually quite good at interviews—he excelled at talking to people, knowing when to push his luck with manipulation and when to back off. Harry wasn’t bad, either; his gut instinct led him to the right conclusions about whomever they interviewed. Together—as with most of the things they came up against as partners—they were a force to be reckoned with. Savage and the other Senior Aurors were starting to make noise about Head Auror Robards assigning them more difficult and complex cases to see how they did.

“Well, Potter?” Draco leaned closer, hunching over slightly so he could glance up at Harry through his lashes like a Crup begging for scraps.

Harry snorted and reached up to push his spectacles higher on his nose. “Oh, alright, you little cretin. Have at it. But _no_ Entrail-Expelling Curses , you _know_ what a pain in the arse that is to clean up.”

Draco held up his palms, a cat-got-the-cream smirk on his aristocratic face. “Fine, fine. You always love doing things the hard way.”

“Funny how you associate the correct letter of the law with the _hard way_ ,” Harry said jokingly. “It’s a wonder why most people expect Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs to be in justice careers.”

“Well, if they keep expecting that, they’re only going to be disappointed,” Draco said pragmatically. “The majority of the DMLE are Slytherins for a reason. Excellent at knowing just which rules to bend and which to blatantly wave at as we pass them by to get the job done.”

Harry shook his head again. “You are something else. Don’t let Robards hear you say those things. I don’t want to end up with duty patrol on Diagon again.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re a sad martyr that swears he hates the attention of his fawning public,” Draco drawled, adjusting the stiff cuffs of his shirt. He looked so regal, more like a prince than an Auror, and when he turned those grey, mercurial eyes on him, Harry’s breath left him. Draco blinked at him. “Are you ready, or not, Potter? I’d like to finish this up and write the report so that we can submit it to the Senior Aurors and go to the pub.”

“Got a hot date?” Harry quipped, bumping his shoulder against Draco’s.

He took a distinct pleasure in seeing a slight wrinkle left in the red fabric of Draco’s cloak, just below the golden bars that signified his rank. Draco would shit himself if he knew; he always droned on about the importance of the lines of his clothes.

Draco looked at him wryly. “Very cute, Potter. I would just like to be done for the day and go have our pints, if you’d please. This week has been far too long already.”

“It’s only Tuesday,” Harry said tartly.

Draco gave him another flat, unimpressed look in response. “Are we going to interview Mr Tenley, or aren’t we?”

“Lead the way,” Harry said, sweeping his arm out.

Draco opened the door and held it for Harry, both of them sliding out of their banter and into a unified professional front.

After they’d completed their interview with Mr Tenley, Harry and Draco packed up their satchels, removed their outer robes so that the suits they wore beneath would blend in and left the Ministry together. They exited to street level on Whitehall through the Muggle side; hundreds of people were striding purposefully up and down the block of whitewashed buildings. They made a left and fell into step beside one another, walking in the direction of their favourite local, the Silver Cross.

Harry could feel the weight of the recipe in his pocket and a flutter of excitement bubbled up inside him as the crisp fall air brushed through his hair.

When they came up to the pub, Harry opened the door and held it so that Draco entered before him. He followed Draco to the bar and plopped onto a cushioned stool next to him. The bartender nodded to Draco and tossed the cloth he’d been wiping the counter with over his shoulder.

Harry swiveled back and forth slightly on his stool until Draco flicked him. He glanced around and nodded to a few other regulars he recognised. The pub was mostly empty, but it would quickly fill up as more Muggles got off from work.

“What’ll y’have, boys?” the bartender asked, leaning one forearm on the counter.

“Two pints of Carling,” Draco said. “And an order of chips.”

He ran his fingers through his long fringe and tucked it back behind his ear after mussing it up. Harry’s eyes tracked the movement and admired the way Draco’s jaw was sharper in profile.

The bartender returned after pulling two pints from the tap for them and Harry’s mouth watered in anticipation. They both picked up their glasses and clinked them together before taking a sip. Draco and Harry both sighed contentedly.

“As long as Tenley doesn’t get Madelyn Craig for his solicitor, then the case against him will remain ironclad,” Draco said.

Harry hummed in response. Draco picked at the cardboard beer mat beneath his drink and shifted to cross his long legs at the ankles.

“I don’t know if he can afford Ms Craig, honestly. Even with his illegal coin filling his coffers, her firm is expensive,” Harry said.

Their chips arrived in a bowl, golden and steaming and smelling divine. Harry picked up the bowl and his pint and moved over to one of the booths in the corner, Draco following behind him. When they sat, Draco swiped the vinegar and began dousing the chips with it, a gleam in his eyes. One thing Harry learned about Draco very early on in their training days together: he fucking _loved_ chips. He liked to pretend he didn’t sometimes, like he was too posh for them, but Harry knew what he was about.

Harry took another sip of his pint and fished out the recipe he wanted to show Draco.

“Hey, look at what I found when I was looking for that book you wanted me to look for,” Harry said.

“Did you find the book?” Draco asked. Harry shook his head with an apologetic expression, sliding the parchment across the table.

“Not yet. I’m going to ask Kreacher. He would probably be able to find it,” Harry assured him.

Draco picked up the paper and examined it with mild interest. Harry watched his grey eyes flick back and forth as he read down the list of ingredients, through the instructions, and lingered on the note from F. Potter at the bottom. He quirked a finely sculpted eyebrow and glanced up at Harry over the edge of the paper.

“This has been in your house all this time?” Draco asked. Harry shrugged and nodded. “How curious.”

Harry watched as Draco examined the parchment again. “It was in a picnic basket Sirius had under his bed. During the war I found a letter from my mother to Sirius, too. I wanted to ask if you might be able to figure out who wrote this to him based on the initials.”

Harry tried to mask the note of hope in his voice, but he wasn’t sure how well he managed. When Draco looked up at him once more, Harry ducked his head to stare down at his pint instead, feeling exposed and a bit raw. He reached out and stuffed a buttery chip into his mouth, the burst of salt and vinegar tangy on his tongue.

Draco ate a chip and shifted the bowl further away from the old piece of parchment, keeping it safe from the grease. “Well, I would hazard a guess that this was written by your father’s father, Fleamont. Your grandfather.”

“My grandfather?” Harry repeated, the niggling of hope growing. He looked back up at Draco.

“Yes,” Draco said. “I’ve practically got all of the prominent family bloodlines memorised. Fleamont Potter, born 1902 to Henry Potter—probably for whom you’re named—married Euphemia Potter, and fathered James Potter later in life. He was most notably famous for his development and invention of the renowned Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion. That’s where most of your family money comes from.”

Draco rattled off this information from memory, as if it were the weather or Potions facts, but he kept Harry pinned to his seat with an undecipherable look. His eyes slid up to Harry’s hair and his mouth twitched.

“Actually, come to think of it, you could definitely do with a pot of it; your hair is atrocious,” Draco said. “It was specifically designed to tame particularly bushy or unruly hair. It’s rumoured that Fleamont designed it for himself so that he could charm Euphemia when he was courting her.”

Harry huffed out a laugh. He felt more balanced at Draco’s friendly ribbing.

“There’s not a lot known about them other than that; the Potters were very private once they settled down,” Draco said. “The last thing of note was that they both died of Dragon Pox.”

Draco handed the recipe back and reached for more chips, surreptitiously licking the salt from his fingertips and watching Harry to make sure he’d not been caught being uncouth.

Warmth spread in Harry’s stomach because he suddenly knew more about his family. He bit his lip while he read through the note to Sirius once more. The spell Hermione had given him made the jotted down writing much easier to read. Harry could clearly make out the ingredients and instructions and realised it was a curry recipe.

He felt like a missing piece of himself was dusted off and shining. It sparked in him a curiosity to learn more about his family, and how to make the recipe, and whatever else he might be able to find out about his mixed roots.

Harry smiled softly down at the way Fleamont had written his _t_ ’s and _a_ ’s, just like Harry wrote his. He’d felt an amazing connection to his mother when he’d first discovered her letter to Sirius, and now he was feeling the same way while recognising his own writing habits on the page. He’d never felt more like a Potter in his life.

“Thanks,” Harry said, genuinely happy. “I—thank you.”

He didn’t quite know how to express his gratitude to Draco. He was waved off as Draco ate more chips and finished off his pint.

“Don’t go all soft on me over a few memorised trivia footnotes, Potter,” Draco chided. “You can buy more chips as a thank you.”

“Only if I can get them with curry sauce,” Harry said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Draco was a purist when it came to chips, preferring only salt and an obscene amount of vinegar; he never let Harry bring him adventurous things, despite the many ways to properly enjoy chips.

“Have you gone mad?” Draco scoffed and pointed a finger at him. “Putting anything other than vinegar on chips is foul.”

“It’s not,” Harry said, sliding from his seat. “You’re just not brave enough to try chips with a little more variety to them.”

“Why should I? Chips are perfectly fine the way they are made: with sea salt and properly made vinegar.”

“Coward.” Harry nearly yelped when he felt the half-hearted Stinging Hex bite his arse as he walked away from their booth. He shot an unimpressed glare over his shoulder and saw Draco tucking away his wand discreetly, a satisfied look on his face.

Harry went up to order more chips and another round for both of them. He didn’t remain annoyed for the Stinging Hex for long—it hadn’t even hurt, it was just the _principle_ —still too chuffed at learning the names of his father’s parents.

When he returned to the table, Draco had a thoughtful look on his face. That could only mean trouble and Harry set the fresh bowl of chips down with slight trepidation, braving whatever Draco had in store for him.

“Thought of a new puzzle to entertain yourself with?” Harry asked lightly. He reached for his pint after stuffing a hot, buttery chip in his mouth.

Draco’s eyes found his; he looked at him in a way that made Harry feel hunted. He thought it must be how a stag felt before it was speared with an arrow in the moments when time slowed and it decided on running or facing down the danger.

“I was just thinking…this reminds me about my session last week. I talked about my father’s expectations and traditions I was raised with,” Draco said, picking through his words with premeditative care.

Harry inclined his head, beating back his rising suspicion. Hermione still did it all the time, always bringing it up; she even subscribed to Muggle science publications that detailed new studies in psychology.

“It was a good session. I had a small breakthrough; she helped me recognise some of my coping mechanisms,” Draco continued.

Harry relaxed somewhat, relieved that it wasn’t about him at all. Whenever Draco mentioned the Mind Healer, Harry never knew if he would be prickly about it or comfortable opening up to him. However, there were times when Draco trusted Harry enough to bring it up on his own to talk to him. When Draco _did_ talk about his Mind Healer, it most often related to work.

“That’s good, right? Now you recognise a new pattern you can break before you fall into the behaviour you want to avoid?” Harry hoped he didn’t sound like an arse. He was supportive of Draco’s therapeutic endeavors; he just had no idea what to actually say. Everything he understood about therapy came filtered through Hermione and the bits he’d picked up from the few times Draco talked with him about meetings with his Mind Healer.

Draco made a noncommittal sound, his mouth full of chips. He chased it with a sip of his pint, and Harry paused for a moment to appreciate that he was one of the few people that got to see Draco when he wasn’t all buttoned up with proper manners.

“Yes. It just made me think about you, though,” Draco said.

 _Oh, shit_ , Harry thought, soft smile dropping from his face.

“Did it?” Harry winced when his question came out more brittle than he intended.

Draco watched him. “With you being cut off from all knowledge about your family—and everything you went through in the last decade—you could…talk to someone. About those things.”

Annoyance crept up and soured the good mood Draco’s previous help had put him in. Harry leaned back against the booth and tapped his fingers on the table.

“I just talked to you about my family,” Harry pointed out. “And Ron and Hermione; I talk to them all the time. I’ve plenty of people to talk to.”

Draco’s lips pressed together. He traced an elegant finger over the edge of his beer mat, easily picking up on Harry’s mood swing and backing off. Harry wanted to snort at how good Draco was at reading him.

“True, you have a support system,” Draco said slowly in a quiet tone he used when they interviewed a volatile suspect in custody. “But are any of them professional Healers?” He held up a hand to cut Harry off when he opened his mouth. “Granger’s obsessive interest in the field doesn’t count. Even if she did pursue a career in Healing, she wouldn’t be able to treat you because you’re practically family.”

“Oh, I see what this is,” Harry said caustically. “You’ve talked to her, haven’t you? This is just the pair of you teaming up on me.”

Draco frowned. “Do you think yourself too good for it, is that it? The great and noble hero is above recognising when he needs help? What does that make the rest of us? _Weak_?”

Harry’s shoulders slumped, suddenly feeling like an arse. “No, Malfoy—look, that’s not…Sorry. I think it’s really good that people seek out therapy.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Draco said, voice frosty and polished. Fuck, Harry had really stuck his foot in it. Draco hated it whenever someone thought less of him for seeing someone professionally to talk out his issues. “Sorry we don’t all come from your strong stock.”

A frustrated noise bled out of Harry slowly through his teeth. “I said I was sorry and that I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant _for me_. I’ve got my gardening and that helps me plenty, alright? I feel _fine_ —haven’t had a nightmare or anything in over a year.”

Well—that wasn’t _entirely_ true. He still had nightmares. They just weren’t as bad as the worst of the lot, so he thought he was improving. His mind could fix itself. Harry kept his face strategically blank so that Draco wouldn’t be able to tell he was bending the truth.

Draco scoffed. “Just because you feel fine _now_ doesn’t mean that there’s not a scab that needs to heal over, you stubborn tosser,” he said bitingly. Draco sighed and glanced away, watching the bartender wipe down the counter. “You could benefit from it. It’s not awful, once you get over yourself.” An uncomfortable expression clouded his face for a beat. “And _I’m_ the one saying that. I’ve come pretty far from when you first mentioned it back in eighth year and I said it wasn’t a subject often discussed in polite social circles.”

Harry slouched in his seat, feeling chastened. His defensiveness deflated a little.

“My how the times change,” Draco added, voice dripping with false sincerity.

“Sorry,” Harry repeated. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like I didn’t think it worked…or wasn’t helpful for people. Er, I just—talking about the war is hard enough. If I had to…if I had to open up to a stranger who didn’t _know_ first hand, or about my p-parents, too—and what if this stuff came up? That I want to learn more about this?” Harry gestured to the note from Fleamont. His words tumbled together and he took a breath to try to slow himself down. Harry ran a hand through his hair to wait out the uncomfortable twist in his stomach. “Maybe. I don’t know, Malfoy.”

Draco stared at him for several long moments. “It doesn’t fix everything all at once, you know. It takes time. You have to keep working at it the same way you tend to your garden.”

That made sense to Harry. He began to think that maybe this was another way he could relate to Draco after all. Maybe he really was just being a great tit about the whole thing. Hermione would be so annoyed if she found out that Draco was the one to finally get through to Harry, when she’d been relentlessly trying for _years_ to give him an intervention.

Just as he was about to say as much, his wand buzzed in his pocket, jarring him. Harry’s hand flew to where it was tucked away, feeling the vibration. It was a failsafe for when Aurors were detected to be in Muggle areas and unable to be reached by Patronus.

Draco’s hand was also on his pocket where he had his wand stowed. He cast a regretful look at the half-empty bowl of chips.

“We’re being called in,” Draco said.

Harry was already standing, surreptitiously slipping his hand in his pocket to touch his wand. Once his magical signature registered, the buzzing stopped.

“Let’s go,” Harry said. “Hopefully it’s a good lead.”

*******

Harry cast a fresh preservation charm on the frail piece of parchment that Fleamont Potter’s family recipe was written on to keep it safe from deteriorating from the number of times he folded and refolded it. He kept it on him, getting into the habit of putting his hand in his pocket and running his finger over the corners of the page, trying to connect as much as he could to his lost family.

Since finding Fleamont’s note to Sirius, Harry couldn’t help but think—for the millionth time—about how he had grown up with the Dursleys in Little Whinging and how much it differed from how he was supposed to have grown up, had his life not been touched by Voldemort.

No one living in Little Whinging had looked quite like Harry, with his darker olive skin and wild black hair. Only when he traveled to the city did he begin to see more diversity than the stark sameness that Privet Drive offered. Aunt Petunia always fussed about him, overly worried about how Harry made her family look, constantly obsessed with presenting the picture-perfect family in the suburban area they lived in. Too often, Harry could recall the lingering looks the neighbours gave him out of the corners of their eyes, their expressions and actions only amplifying Harry’s sense of _different_. When he was younger, he thought it was simply because of what Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon spouted about his dad and his dad’s ‘ _rotten family_ ’, but once he’d learned the truth about his wizard heritage, he knew it must be something else that always kept the Muggle neighbourhood children from ever really speaking to him; Dudley never had the same problem making friends.

Harry hadn’t felt a true sense of belonging until he was eleven and finding out he was a wizard for the first time. Harry did not get to experience family holidays, or birthdays, or family suppers—not until he’d met his Hogwarts family. Still, he ached for what could have been, especially now that he had found another scrap of his own history, and could imagine the hazy picture of what should have been his life more clearly. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine Fleamont and Euphemia cooking dinner together in a wizarding kitchen, with a younger Sirius and James, envisioning a smaller version of himself.

Harry had pictures of his mum and dad together, now framed and displayed around Grimmauld Place, and he could always see how much he looked just like James. He had never realised the implication that his family had heritage and values to pass down through the generations. Harry tended to think of his family as a nearly separate entity from his own story; after all, he still considered himself _just Harry_.

Figuring out during the war that the Potters descended from one of the Peverell brothers was one thing—Harry still didn’t give a damn about blood purity—but finding the recipe suddenly made his past more tangible and _real_. It awoke a desperate hunger in Harry to uncover more, to find out as much as he could to connect to the lost parts of his past.

A pang of melancholic regret ran through him swiftly when he pictured his parents taking him to purchase supplies for Hogwarts, or of faceless grandparents, that he couldn’t quite picture, that Harry might’ve regaled with stories of his first Quidditch match. He imagined the life that had been ripped away from him by Voldemort’s ruthless actions.

Harry wondered if the recipe was still James’s favourite when he was grown, married, and had Harry—if Fleamont and Euphemia would have had a regular supper night and invited Lily and James and Harry over for homemade curry dishes.

Harry’s breath shuddered out of him just imagining sitting around a dining room table with his birth family and he had to bring his shaking fingers up to dash away the stinging wetness gathering in his eyes. He took off his glasses and set them aside, covering his eyes with his palms to hide the tears leaking out.

When he calmed down, Harry slid his fingertip over the edge of the recipe again and made a decision for himself: he was going to use the discovered recipe to find these unknown pieces of himself.

His first stop was to the Burrow on a Saturday. Ron and Hermione sat in the kitchen with fresh, steaming cups of tea when Harry walked in through the entrance from the garden. Molly pulled a batch of scones from the oven and was carefully levitating the pan with expert skill to the cooling rack under the window.

“Harry! What a nice surprise!” Molly said happily.

She opened her arms wide for a hug and Harry felt the melancholy he’d been steeped in all week soothing in the face of his surrogate mother’s affection. He might have lost his real family when Voldemort tore apart his life as a child, but Harry knew it didn’t mean he didn’t _have_ a family—one that loved him wholeheartedly and unconditionally.

Harry fell into her embrace, hunching over her short frame to bury his face in her neck. She smelled of sweet, of floral perfume and freshly baked treats in a way that Harry associated with home. She was giggling when he pulled away after lingering in the hug.

“What brings you by?” Molly asked, flicking her wand so that another seat shot out for Harry.

He joined Ron and Hermione at the table, nodding to them in greeting, and pulled the recipe out of his pocket with great care, even though it was well protected by the preservation charm.

“I was looking through some of the things we’d stored in Sirius’s room earlier in the week, when everyone came over, and I found this recipe,” Harry explained. He set it down on the table and slid it across so Molly could see it.

She conjured a pair of silver wire-framed reading spectacles and perched them precariously on the tip of her round nose, squinting down at Fleamont’s handwriting. Her lips moved, forming around the words while she read the note to Sirius and the recipe directions.

“Hermione helped me spell it so it was more legible where it had faded, and when I showed it to Malfoy, he confirmed that Fleamont Potter was my dad’s dad,” Harry said.

“How lovely,” Molly said warmly, smiling at Harry. She stepped closer and brushed his unruly fringe away from his forehead in a motherly fashion that made Harry feel cosy and loved. “What a special thing to find, and it was tucked away with Sirius’s old things?”

“Yeah. So, I wanted to come over and show it to you,” Harry said. He tugged on his earlobe and peered up at Molly. “Do you think you could help me learn how to make this recipe? I’ve got Indian takeaway loads of times, but I’ve never really tried to cook it on my own…and you’re the only other person I know who cooks regularly.”

Molly beamed at him, bustling around the kitchen to plate the scones onto a serving tray and levitating it, along with two more cups of tea, to the table.

“Of course I will, dear,” Molly said, setting a cup of tea in front of him and seating herself between Harry and Ron. “I would love to help out in any way I can.”

“Can I volunteer as your taste tester?” Ron asked, looking hopeful and hungry, even as he plucked two warm scones from the serving tray and tucked into them, humming in delight at his mother’s baking.

“Sure, Ron,” Harry agreed, laughing.

Molly read over the recipe again while they ate scones and drank their tea. “Some of these herbs you’ll find growing in your garden, if I remember what you’ve planted since my last visit. I can’t speak to any specific traditions your family might have used when making this, of course, but it doesn’t look too difficult to prepare, based on the directions given.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, feeling himself relaxing in the comfortable atmosphere of the Burrow.

Hermione reached across the table and took Harry’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

“I think it’s lovely that you found it,” Hermione said. “You should send an owl to Padma and Parvati, you know. If you show them the recipe, I’m sure they’d be able to help you out and point you in the right direction to find out more about these things.”

“You think?” Harry asked, brightening at the prospect of another viable avenue to discovering more about his heritage.

“Absolutely,” Hermione said. “I know they celebrate the Diwali festival with their family. I remember Parvati telling us about the lights and the fireworks in our dorm room at Hogwarts. I’m sure they celebrate the different holidays throughout the year to honour their culture and heritage.”

“I’ll write them right now then,” Harry said, feeling a burst of enthusiasm. He Summoned parchment and a quill and turned to Ron. “I can borrow Pig, right?”

“’Course, mate,” Ron said.

The four of them enjoyed the rest of their tea while Harry dashed off a letter to send to Padma and Parvati. He hadn’t seen much of them since eighth year. Padma had joined Auror training, but left shortly after it began to transfer into studying magical law. Parvati had ended up as a columnist for _Witch Weekly_ , pursuing her lifelong passion for fashion.

*******

Harry heard back from the Patil twins when he returned to Grimmauld Place, a sleek barn owl waiting for him by the sitting room window. He smiled and stepped forward to untie the folded parchment tied to its leg.

He opened the letter and sat in his favourite chair by the fire to read it. They invited Harry out for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron and expressed their excited congratulations to Harry for having found his grandfather’s recipe. Harry’s smile stretched wider reading through their words. He was grateful that they were so welcoming, when he had no idea about these things. He got the same sense of belonging receiving their letter that he had when he got his letter for Hogwarts from Hagrid, and it made him feel warm all over, like they were hugging him all the way across London. He felt a flutter of anticipation, too, eager to find out more about who he was supposed to be.

Harry met up with the twins at the Leaky on Wednesday after work, still sporting his Auror robe, the gold buttons undone so it hung open over his work clothes underneath. Harry spotted them in a booth at the back corner when he walked in and waved before heading for the bar and greeting Hannah and Tom.

After ordering a drink, Harry joined Padma and Parvati at their booth.

“Hi, it’s good to see you both,” Harry said. “Thanks for inviting me out.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Harry,” Parvati said warmly. “We were just saying how nice it is that you found out more about your family before you arrived. We didn’t realise you were Indian in school; you don’t look it outright, and your name is English.”

“Yeah. I didn’t really know, either. My Muggle relatives never told me much about them, and my godfather and parents’ friends never got the chance to talk about my family tree with me. I think…I guess they just all thought there’d be time for it all. I didn’t even know who Fleamont Potter was, much less that I was related to him,” Harry said, shifting in his seat and trying to ignore the old ache of sadness when he thought of Sirius and Remus. “How’s work been?”

“My office has been working on a case consulting with Hermione at the Creatures department,” Padma said.

She was dressed in a smart pantsuit in midnight blue with a deep neckline, with a cream-coloured blouse that came up to her neck. Harry could see a shimmer that looked like stars twinkling in the pinstripes and suspected that Parvati had something to do with her sister’s fashion choices. Parvati was dressed in a bright coloured robe made up of sheer fabrics that overlapped in an intricate pattern of oranges and ambers, emulating an autumn-looking goddess, her hair plaited with a gold ribbon much like it often had been in Hogwarts. Harry thought they both still looked as beautiful as ever.

“That’s great to hear,” Harry said to Padma, raising his pint glass in a toast. “Putting both of your brains together is quite the force to be reckoned with.”

Padma smirked and sipped her wine. “We make a very efficient team.”

“Brutally efficient, or so she tells me when we have lunch,” Parvati added with a fond smile for her sister.

Padma leaned forward and rested an elbow on the table. “So, did you bring your grandfather’s note with you?”

“Yes, I have it right here. I’ve been keeping it on me to, er, feel close,” Harry said, feeling his cheeks heat at his admission.

Padma didn’t tease him for it, though. She simply smiled kindly and accepted the folded parchment when he handed it over. She opened it and held it between her and Parvati so they could both read it at the same time. Parvati was nodding as her eyes scanned over it.

“Looks really close to our nani’s family recipe,” Parvati observed. “She passed it down to our mum and taught her how to make it, too.”

“There’s a great international market not far from Diagon Alley that I shop at when I’m going to make a traditional meal,” Padma said. She opened her handbag and fished around inside, pulling out a shrunken quill and a pad of paper. Padma jotted down an address and tore it off, handing it over to Harry along with Fleamont’s note. “The festival is next week, you know.”

“Festival?” Harry asked, tucking the address and the note away in his pocket. “What, like for Samhain?”

“Well, yes, that’s coming, as well,” Parvati said with a bright, animated smile. “She means Diwali. It’s short for Deepavali; it’s called the festival of lights and it literally means that. It’s marked by the lighting of the deeps or diyas—small lamps made from clay.”

Padma hummed and talked over her sister before she could continue, sounding just as eager when she continued explaining it to Harry. “There are many interpretations of the holiday, but mostly it’s rooted around the idea of celebrating the victory of light over darkness, knowledge over ignorance—”

“Hope over despair,” finished Parvati, gesturing with her hands almost as if she were dancing.

Both sisters looked like they glowed with pride and love for their culture and religion as they talked about it, and that feeling was contagious to Harry. He felt drawn in by their enthusiasm.

“It’s a beautiful holiday; the light displays and the fireworks are always my favourite,” Padma said, looking reminiscent. “The rangoli are beautiful, too. They’re always so colourful. We used to go to Leicester to celebrate it with our cousins’ family; Leicester hosts some of the biggest Diwali festivals outside of India.”

“Wow,” Harry said. The celebration of good conquering over evil and hope prevailing struck a strong chord in him, speaking to him on a level that he knew well from the war. “I’ve seen the fireworks displays, I think.”

Part of him was sad to be just learning about this now, in his twenties, rather than learning it from his dad as a child—as it should have been—but Harry was grateful that Padma and Parvati were teaching him about it now.

“What else happens?” Harry asked, drinking from his pint again.

“It’s a really important festival to different Indian cultures. For us, we follow the Hindu practices,” Parvati explained. She gestured with her hands much like Parvati did, making flourishing movements to emphasize what she was saying. “It lasts for five days leading up to the new moon around October or November every year. The new moon is celebrated on the third night, that’s the main part of the festival where the lights are lit on the darkest night and the fireworks go off—you also offer prayers to Lakshmi and spend time with your family and friends.”

“There’s sweets,” Padma added, eyeing Harry with a knowing look. His penchant for eating treacle tart hadn’t escaped her notice in eighth year. “One of the ways you honour your relationships is to exchange gifts. There’s a shop where you can buy them in London, but you can also make them in the days before Lakshmi puja to prepare.”

“Puja?” Harry asked, thrown by the new word.

“Puja are the offerings you give to Lakshmi so that she may grant you with her blessing of wealth and prosperity when she visits us,” Parvati said with a reverence that made her look even more beautiful. “So, we clean our homes, decorate them with splendor and lights, and prepare offerings to make her happy.”

Harry grinned and took another sip, looking back and forth between the girls as they took turns explaining the festival to him.

“Have you ever been to a Diwali celebration in India?” Harry asked.

“We have plans to next year, actually,” Parvati said. “It was Padma’s idea to take our Nani since she hasn’t been since she was a little girl.”

Harry enjoyed listening to the girls describe the sweets and food, the patterned floor displays, music, and the different types of lanterns and candles used to decorate the homes and shop windows. It sounded like an amazing celebration, and he was excited to find out more about it. When he thought about it, he could recall Parvati painting intricate henna patterns on her hands every autumn at Hogwarts, and now he knew why.

“It’s customary to buy a new outfit, or wear your best one on the third night, and before Diwali night you clean and decorate your house and office. Or, I guess it’s an Auror cubicle in your case, Harry?” Padma smiled slyly when Harry nodded. “It’s also a time to make special purchases; some people save money all year just to buy a new item for Diwali.”

“Oh, I have an idea! Would you mind if we came over on the second night? We can help you decorate, if you’d like?” Parvati asked, eager and bright.

“I’d love that,” Harry said with a wide grin. “This is brilliant. Do you have any recommendations for where I might look up more? I don’t know what religion my family practiced, but I’d like to know more about it.”

“Yes! I’ll owl you over some books. I have some with Indian mythology stories that I think you’ll like,” Padma offered. “You might even recognise some stories that relate closely to Binns’s History of Magic lectures.”

“Thanks,” Harry said gratefully. He was eager to learn more, ready to soak up any knowledge that would take him closer to discovering these parts of himself that he didn’t know about.

Both Padma and Parvati smiled back at him and linked their arms together.

“Wonderful,” Parvati said. “We were going to attend a lighting ceremony before we go to our parents’ house after. You are more than welcome to join us for that, too.”

“I’d like that a lot, Parvati. Thanks,” Harry said sincerely.

When they finished their drinks and stood to leave, Harry pulled both of them into hugs. He thanked them once more and made sure they had the address correct for Grimmauld Place so they would be able to come the following week to go through some of the holiday preparations together.

His mind was buzzing—and even a little overwhelmed—with all of the new information he’d learned.

Harry traveled home to Grimmauld Place in high spirits and his good mood lasted throughout the night until he crawled into bed. When he drifted off to sleep, he dreamed.

It was only flashes, quick impressions, in that choppy way that dream narratives work, but Harry couldn’t help but feel trapped in a sense of déjà vu in his dream. He was watching a smiling face above him, one that looked familiar, and he was waving a wand and making colourful lights dance around the room. Harry could hear laughter and felt warm and content.

When Harry woke in the morning he remained in bed, laying there and looking up at the ceiling with a puzzled expression. He closed his eyes and tried to walk himself back through the dream, hoping to hold onto the details before they were lost to him. He couldn’t picture the face clearly, but something told Harry instinctively that he had dreamed of his dad. Harry bit his lip and wondered if he was remembering a time when James had done the lights for Diwali with his wand to make Harry smile. A lump formed in his throat at the thought and he rolled over to bury his face in his pillow. He couldn’t be sure if it was really a memory, or just his brain reminding him of plausible things so soon after talking to the Patil twins.

Later, on the third night of the festival, Harry walked through the gathered crowd following Padma and Parvati with Ron and Hermione tagging along behind them. When Harry told them about the Patil twins’ invitation, they asked Harry if it would be all right for them to join the group to attend the lighting ceremony, and he was glad to have his oldest friends by his side while he immersed himself in things completely new to him.

Part of him was nervous to experience the festival. It had been different when it was just the Patil twins in his house, cleaning alongside him and stringing decorative lights around Grimmauld Place. Attending the lighting ceremony festivities felt different, like he was taking a bigger leap into the unknown. Even though he knew it was a link to his family—that he had every right to want to learn more about it—there was a niggling of anxiety in his gut as he had dressed to go out. Harry knew, deep in his heart, that he feared he wouldn’t fit in at the festival celebration—that he was not enough.

Harry shook the thoughts from his head as they navigated their way through the bustling crowd to find a good spot. He reminded himself of what the twins had told him when they first explained what was celebrated at Diwali—that it was a time to let the light in and allow hope to chase away despair.

There were candles lined up everywhere, waiting to be lit. When Padma located a suitable spot, she turned and signaled to their group, waving them over.

“Here’s good!” she said, handing Harry a candle and adding her own to the line of candles that wound in a meandering trail down the pavement. “Oh, look at that one, that’s lovely!”

Padma pointed a short distance away to a family with two small girls that were putting the finishing touches on the pattern they set their lights up in, creating a flower-like mandala. One of the daughters wearing a pretty pale blue sari grinned and waved at Padma. She waved back and knelt next to Parvati and Harry. The gold embroidered fabric of the girl’s outfit caught Harry’s eye and reminded him of the Snitch glinting in the afternoon sun.

As dusk fell and the sunset faded into twilight, the light spread like wildfire throughout the city block. Harry’s breath caught as the ceremony began, and he saw the glow from the candles chase away the darkness. It was a beautiful sight in every direction.

The family with the mandala formation nearby was giggling with their young daughters as they helped them light each candle, creating a beautiful light display.

Harry’s lingering doubts melted away with every new burst of candlelight, their glow making the street they were on beam with ambient warmth. It was a magic that Harry couldn’t create with his wand—the feeling lifted his spirits and crested over him like a wave. Padma and Parvati were grinning brightly, and their smiles were infectious. Harry felt a lump forming in his throat as he looked around at the luminous candles surrounding them on all sides.

Harry cupped his hand around his own candle and pulled a Muggle lighter from his pocket to light the wick. He smiled down as the flame danced in the breeze, then turned and offered his lighter to Hermione and Ron. Padma and Parvati had their candles lit and pointed out other creative displays as the warm candlelight spread along the block. There were colourful lanterns and diyas set up to make an image when lit, like circle patterns and lotus flowers and star bursts around intricate symbols.

As Harry looked back down at the flickering light from his lit candle, he swallowed. It truly did feel like the darkness was being conquered. He suddenly felt the same certainty deep in his bones he’d had when he defeated Voldemort. Harry let himself relax, feeling more connected to the celebration—to his father’s family.

The crowd was boisterous, their laughter and joyful voices echoing into the atmosphere. Harry heard a jaunty tune start up in the distance, upbeat and jubilant; it was met with cheers and people singing along.

Harry couldn’t help but feel swept up into the festivities as everything unfolded around him, a wide grin splitting his face as he watched children dancing around with sparklers and lighting firecrackers in the streets. A giddiness bloomed in his chest; he felt like dancing along with the two daughters from the family nearby as they giggled and moved in sync to a dance they knew.

Harry elbowed Ron, gesturing towards his concealed wand. Ron raised an eyebrow, a mischievous look on his face. He nodded and together they discreetly sent off a shower of golden sparks high into the air above their heads.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t see that,” Padma said in amusement, looping her arm through Harry’s. Her hands and forearms were painted decoratively with beautiful henna patterns to match her sister’s.

“Just getting into the spirit. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to arrest myself for breaking the statute,” Harry murmured. He felt drunk and warm and happy, surrounded by music and brightness. “Thank you for inviting me,” he said sincerely.

“You’re welcome. Diwali is about spending time with the ones that matter to you and it can only be enjoyed with large groups. The unity brings us all together,” Padma said with a cheerful smile that made her look as beautiful as a goddess. Harry covered her hand on his arm with his own and gave it a squeeze.

Hermione slid against his other side and tucked her arm around his waist, her head dropping to rest on his shoulder. Harry slung his arm around her and tugged her closer, dropping a kiss on top of her head.

“You look happy,” Hermione said quietly, so only he would be able to hear.

Harry held her tighter and made a sound of agreement. Ron came up on Hermione’s other side and Parvati joined them on Padma’s side. Together they looked up and watched the sky erupt with bright flashes while the fireworks went off.

After the fireworks were finished, Parvati turned to Harry, Ron, and Hermione and wrapped them each in a hug.

“It was so wonderful to have you with us this year!” Parvati said. “I hope you’ll join us for Holi, too, Harry! And please, do bring anyone you’d like!”

“We’re going to head on to our parents’ place for family dinner,” Padma said, coming up behind Parvati’s shoulder as she finished hugging Ron.

“Yeah, definitely,” Harry said. “Thanks again, this was really great.”

“We’re glad you enjoyed yourself, Harry,” Parvati said. She came back around for another hug and waved when she stepped back. “Don’t be such a stranger!”

“I won’t,” Harry promised, waving while the twins left together.

He spotted them ducking into the narrow alley between two shops on the corner and disappear. If he strained his ears, he imagined he could hear the sound of their Disapparition over the bustling chatter of the crowd still surrounding them.

Harry fished around in his pocket and held his offering out to Ron and Hermione. “Here. I got you both some sweets from a shop Padma and Parvati told me about when they came over to help me decorate yesterday.”

Ron made a delighted noise and descended on Harry’s outstretched hand, snatching up the packaged barfi with pistachios and edible silver leaf. Harry had sampled the fudge-like sweet when he visited the shop and knew Ron would love it. Ron mumbled his thanks through a mouthful of his unwrapped sweet, his blissed out face making Harry laugh.

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said, primly waiting until Ron stepped back before picking up the bag of pedas.

“Thanks for coming to share this with me,” Harry told them both sincerely, his throat growing tight again for a moment.

Ron noticed the look in Harry’s eyes and pulled him into a hug.

“We’re always here for you, mate,” Ron said into Harry’s shoulder.

Harry smiled and pushed his face into Ron’s neck for a few beats, feeling content in the warm skin of Ron’s neck before pulling back. As he looked around at the spirited celebrations, he felt an impulsive idea take root in his head.

“I’m going to head out, I think,” Harry said vaguely.

Hermione tilted her head toward him with a considering look. “Are you sure? We could walk around some more.”

“You both go ahead,” Harry insisted. “I, er, have to go…visit some other people to drop off gifts I got for them.”

Ron shrugged and took Hermione’s hand in his. “Alright, Harry. See you on Sunday, then?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “Tell your mum I’ll bring afters.”

“Tell her yourself,” Ron shot back cheekily. “Right; later, then!”

Harry looked on as Ron steered Hermione through the crowded street, taking interest in a group of people enthusiastically playing music on the corner. Harry’s lips quirked into a crooked smile and he spun on his heel to walk in the direction of Draco’s nearby flat.

Padma and Parvati had told Harry that the third night of the festival was for honouring important relationships by visiting friends and family. Draco was important to him, as his partner and as his friend, so Harry gave in to the urge to find him—to share this new piece of himself with him.

When Harry reached Draco’s flat he paused to steady himself. He hoped Draco was home, and that he wasn’t interrupting. Harry slowly inhaled a deep breath through his nose before he stepped forward and pressed the buzzer for Draco’s unit.

“Hello?” Draco’s voice crackled through the intercom. Harry knew he didn’t get many visitors that came through the front door; he was sure that Draco wasn’t expecting his guest to be Harry.

“Hey. It’s me,” Harry said lightly. He shuffled closer to the intercom to avoid the chill of the autumn breeze rustling his hair. “I—can I come up?”

“Potter?” Draco clarified.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Sorry, I was sort of in the neighbourhood and wanted to stop by. I should’ve used the Floo.”

“It’s fine,” Draco said. A moment later the door buzzed and Harry stepped up to open it.

He quickly made his way up the stairwell to Draco’s flat on the third floor and rapped his knuckles on the door. Draco answered it and held the door open for Harry.

“Come in,” Draco said.

He was wearing a pair of soft looking joggers with a thin long-sleeved cotton shirt that had the Auror Academy logo on it. Harry’s eyes trailed over him quickly, feeling a spike in his heart rate.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” Draco said, glancing down at his attire with his mouth pulled to one side. “How was the festival?”

Harry’s face felt like it lit up as brightly as the numerous candles from the lighting ceremony and a glowing warmth settled deep in the pit of his stomach. “It was brilliant. You should’ve seen it, there were so many lights—and the music. I’ve never really seen anything like it. Other than that one time you dragged me to a Samhain party.”

Draco hummed, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He leaned against the doorway to his kitchenette, effortlessly suave.

During training, Draco invited Harry to join him at a Samhain celebration that lasted three days. Harry couldn’t remember much of it—other than the beautiful displays of magic. They’d got completely drunk on Goblin-made gin and somehow Harry ended up dancing naked under the full moon in the November chill with only the endlessly flowing drinks and Warming Charms to keep his knob from falling off in the cold. It had been a wild time for Harry when he woke up in a foggy field the following morning, his head propped against Draco’s side, both of them wrapped in Draco’s cloak.

Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot and held out the sweets he carried for Draco to pick from.

“What are these?” Draco asked, his eyes flaring with interest. Harry knew he had a sweet tooth as bad as Harry’s.

“Some Indian sweets. The Patil twins told me that at Diwali, friendships are honoured with gifts. Like Christmas. So...I brought these for you,” Harry said. “Er, I wasn’t exactly sure what you might like, but the donuts are good.”

“And what about these?” Draco asked, pointing to the biscuits iced to look like diyas.

Harry smiled crookedly and opened the biscuit wrapper, holding it out for Draco to take. “Here, try it.”

Draco held the biscuit and turned it back and forth, examining the iced decoration with an appreciative look. When he bit into it he hummed in satisfaction, wiping stray crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

“That’s lovely,” Draco said. He reached for the donuts that Harry brought and set them down on the counter in his kitchen. Harry followed him in, hovering in the doorway. “I’ll save these for later. Thank you, Potter.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry said, feeling an odd sense of self-consciousness. He cleared his throat and stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets. “I know you’re dressed to stay in, but…would you want to come out for a walk along the river with me?”

Draco looked at him with a startled expression, glancing down at his clothes once more. He peeked at Harry through his lashes and seemed to be debating his answer. Harry chewed on his lip, nearly ready to blurt out that they could do it another time, but Draco’s expression cleared. He nodded and gestured toward the dark hall that led to the other rooms of his flat.

“Very well. Let me just go change out of my lounge clothes,” Draco said.

“Okay,” Harry agreed, ignoring the thump of excitement thrumming through him.

When they left Draco’s flat, Draco was wrapped in a scarf that matched his eyes and a navy wool coat. He tucked his nose into the loops of his scarf and held an arm out in a sweeping gesture.

“Lead the way, Potter,” Draco said.

They walked together and made it to the river after a few blocks. Along the way, Harry pointed out the handful of earthen lanterns and diyas that he spotted in windows and doorways.

When Draco asked what they were for, Harry felt a peaceful happiness soar through him when he answered, explaining why Diwali was known as the festival of lights. Draco smiled at him, with one of the rare open smiles that Harry didn’t get to enjoy often, and the flush in Harry’s cheeks couldn’t be entirely attributed to the chill in the autumn air.

*******

Harry shifted restlessly for the third time, trying fruitlessly to stretch his legs without jostling Draco, who was sitting close in their cramped position while they were on a stakeout two weeks later. He grumbled when his foot burst with another flare of pins-and-needles static, gnashing his teeth together. Magic might be able to do a great many things, but there was still no cure for a lack of blood flow to limbs.

“Stop moving,” Draco bit out curtly, keeping his voice pitched low.

He shot Harry a steely look out of the corner of his eye, his fringe brushing his high cheekbone and partially obscuring Draco’s face.

Harry huffed out an irritated sigh and tried wiggling his toes, strangling the sound that wanted to escape him to voice his discomfort at the prickling sensation of his foot being asleep. Harry hated patrols for this exact reason.

They were positioned between two shipping containers that concealed their vantage point, watching a warehouse for suspected criminal activity. It wasn’t even their case, but the Senior Aurors often liked to commandeer the fresher Auror teams to utilize for their stakeout patrols.

Harry was always better when he was in the fray of action, chasing down suspects and duelling with his adrenaline pumping. His instincts served him best that way. Draco, on the other hand, was better suited for stakeouts. Harry envied the way he sat still, his piercing gaze eagle-eyed as he catalogued the scene, alert to the most minimal of change in the situation. Draco thrived on the puzzle, collecting information to examine and piece together for their cases.

These patrols were _boring_ , Harry lamented to himself. It had been different during the war, when it was Ron, Hermione, and himself against all odds. It had been a matter of life and death, back then, when they watched the Ministry to work out the plan to sneak in.

The criminals Harry and Draco watched for were only suspected of trafficking magical creatures without proper permits and equipment—a minor charge compared to the high stakes of infiltrating the Ministry during the war. Harry wasn’t even sure why it warranted a damn stakeout; he was _dreading_ the mountain of paperwork that awaited them back at Level 2, as was protocol. He wished Auror Rowe had just petitioned for a search warrant with the evidence already gathered.

“My foot has gone numb,” Harry whispered in frustration. “There’s been no movement for the last hour, no one is going to notice if I wiggle my foot to wake it back up.”

Draco rolled his eyes and reached down between them, massaging Harry’s calf without asking. Harry’s breath caught in his throat, unable to voice anything—not a protest, or a pleading whisper for Draco to touch him more. Draco worked his fingers into the muscle of his leg, pressing through the material of his trousers and following the path of his ankle. Harry bit his tongue. The prickling sensation of static radiated from Harry’s foot in the strangest way; he was both grateful for Draco’s impromptu massage and jarred by the pain-not-pain of blood rushing back to Harry’s foot. Harry suddenly wanted to shift closer, to give into the distraction and forget all about the patrol.

“Did you forget the entire chapter on patrol techniques?” Draco’s question came out in a teasing murmur, close to Harry’s ear, his tone doing things to Harry that he wasn’t entirely prepared for while on a stakeout. “You’re supposed to circle your ankles and massage your legs every twenty minutes to keep yourself from having this problem. What would you do if the suspects ran out and we had to chase them while your foot was asleep? I swear, you’re entirely hopeless and I am carrying us both as an Auror team.”

Harry hummed in response, closing his eyes and resisting the urge to sway closer to Draco so that his lips would brush against Harry’s ear. They were sitting so close: he could feel the warmth of Draco’s body practically pressed along his side. They hadn’t risked Warming Charms, too worried about the suspects seeing the flare of magic that would cause, so they had shuffled together when they settled into their patrol position. They were both wrapped in thick wool coats over the suits they wore under their Auror uniforms. They were in Muggle attire in order to blend in and not get noticed as Aurors when they’d walked to the warehouse from the direction of a Muggle section of London into the outskirts of a wizarding area where the warehouse was located. Draco had a soft looking blue scarf looped around his neck and tucked into the lapels of his coat.

It felt nice to have someone running their hands attentively over him; it had been so long since he’d been intimate with anyone, and Draco’s touch was making him startlingly aware of the fact.

Harry swallowed as the pressure from Draco’s fingers lessened, but lingered on his leg. He became hyper-aware of the way Draco traced the curve of his calf muscle. He flexed his leg and watched Draco’s throat convulse. He didn’t know what the reaction meant, but Harry wasn’t about to say or do anything that would make Draco stop. He was too fascinated that Draco was doing the massaging for Harry, instead of ordering him to do it on his own.

Harry darted his eyes back to the scene they were meant to be watching, staring at the warehouse without taking in any of the information. They were positioned in a prime location if the suspects ever got around to moving their transport, but from their vantage point they weren’t able to garner any new information for the case. Harry’s instincts were niggling at him to move closer for a better look at what might be happening inside.

“This patrol is only going to have a positive effect on Rowe’s case if they ever bloody move,” Harry muttered.

“You have to be patient,” Draco said. He finally pulled his fingers away from Harry’s leg and Harry frowned at the loss. “Rowe said they don’t transport until after midnight, so we still have another twenty minutes before we can expect anything useful to happen. Until then, you’ll just have to wait and observe.”

“It’s ridiculous that they even sent us out on stakeout. You know the charge for trafficking is minor at best, unless Rowe can prove that they’re moving a restricted or controlled creature,” Harry said pointedly.

“It’s the job,” Draco said.

“It’s grunt work,” Harry countered.

“The great Harry Potter, everyone: too important for the same assignments every other fresh Auror has to endure,” Draco mocked.

Harry pulled an unimpressed face and stuck two fingers up at Draco.

Not only did Harry consider it to be a pointless stakeout, but it was also making him realise that this was what being an Auror was on a regular basis: doing monotonous work that didn’t always end with saving the day. It wasn’t exciting, or heroic, or even fulfilling more than half the time.

Harry felt guilty for feeling that way whenever the sentiment bubbled up, making him resent his job as his hand cramped while writing reports or being stuck on a patrol instead of grabbing dinner with Ron and Hermione when their own sensible work days ended on time. He couldn’t be sure if he was truly satisfied with his position as an Auror, or if he was just happy because it enabled him to spend time with Draco. They did make a strong team together, but Harry often found himself missing that feeling he got from eighth year, training his fellow students.

A new wave of guilt crashed over him when he pictured what Ron, Hermione, or Draco would say if he ever voiced these concerns, after he’d worked so hard—especially alongside Draco—to achieve his Auror rank and warrant card. Harry was _good_ at being an Auror, despite finding the red tape and the protocols frustrating, but he did naturally excel at it. He was even better because of Draco: they made such excellent partners because their strengths complemented each other so well.

Harry couldn’t be sure if he was mostly content because becoming an Auror was expected of him—what he’d expected for himself—or if it was what he truly wanted for the rest of his life.

He hated when he spiraled into these thoughts because they made him question everything, but more importantly he pictured the awful, betrayed look on Draco’s face if Harry ever decided to do something else with his career.

Their lives were so intertwined as partners, after eighth year and the three years spent side by side in training at the Academy.

It wasn’t that being an Auror was entirely awful—Harry did enjoy the work, he was proud of what he and Draco achieved and thrived on arresting their suspects—it was just so much more regulation and bureaucracy and _paperwork_ than Harry expected.

His eyes slid back over to Draco as the minutes ticked by. Draco was subtly checking an intricate, expensive looking pocket watch with an arched brow. A streetlamp backlit Draco’s hair in a warm halo of golden light, his aristocratic features cast in sharp contrast. Harry wondered what it would be like to spend his days doing something else, if he could survive and be fulfilled without having his partnership with Draco. It was difficult to picture not seeing Draco every day; he worried it would be boring and lackluster.

“You’re meant to be watching the warehouse, not staring at me, Potter,” Draco said, sounding amused. It broke Harry out of his thoughts. “I know, I’m entirely too dashing for my own good, but we’re here to do a job. Upholding the letter of the law, and all that.”

Harry bumped his shoulder against Draco’s and looked back at the deserted entrance to the building, smiling reluctantly.

“Given that my options are completely inactive doorway and my partner, you’ll have to forgive me if I find you more interesting to glance at,” Harry said without looking at Draco.

His mouth twitched into a lopsided smile when Draco snorted to cover his laughter, making him feel warmer than he had in the last hour that they were positioned there.

“I suppose I can’t fault you for recognising impeccable looks, but really, Potter, I need you to pay attention because I will not be the only one working on the report for this stakeout,” Draco said.

Harry checked the time again and pursed his lips. It was nearly half-past midnight, and there still wasn’t any sign of life from the warehouse.

“Their schedule is off, or Rowe had the wrong information,” Harry said. He glanced around the shadowy surroundings of the warehouse and saw a side door they could possibly enter through without being detected. “I think we should move in for a closer look, see if we can find out what the hold up might be.”

Draco took a moment to consider Harry’s suggestion. Harry watched as his eyes fell on the same side entrance, and he could see when Draco came to the same conclusion as Harry.

“Fine,” Draco agreed. “But only if you agree to be _discreet_. I don’t want another repeat of Southwark. You were like an Erumpent in a tea shop.”

As they carefully stood from their low positions, Harry pulled a face. “Oi, that was our first actual stakeout, and may I also point out that my actions flushed our guy out? We caught him, thanks to what I did.”

Draco waved him off while he drew his wand and fell into a crouch. Harry mirrored him and covered them from behind as they canvassed the area, circling toward the side of the warehouse shrouded in cool shadows. As they moved in and out of the darkness, the light from the lampposts gleamed off Draco’s hair.

Despite Harry’s foray into doubt before, he was completely focused as they got closer to better investigate. They moved as one unit, switching back and forth between taking point and covering their position with a fluid ease that took most Auror partners years to hone. They had it naturally, able to understand each other’s intentions with a unified instinct.

Harry tapped Draco’s shoulder and silently indicated a window past the door. Draco nodded and squeezed Harry’s arm above the elbow, wordlessly telling Harry to hold his position. He slowly swept his wand back and forth, leveling it toward the ground to watch for any potential threat. On every other check, Harry would flick his gaze over to Draco while he discreetly peeked through the window. Draco had to stretch on his tiptoes, holding onto the ledge under the window, to look in.

A moment later, Draco returned to his side and leaned in close to whisper in Harry’s ear.

“No one directly inside, but I saw two open doorways off this side hall that had lights on. Let’s go inside,” Draco said, surrounding Harry with warmth and the subtle scent of his soap.

As Draco pulled back, Harry had to physically stop himself from following him, refocusing on what they were there to do. Harry nodded and took the lead, halting at the door and casting an Auror-strength unlocking spell and _Homenum revelio_.

“Should be four or five inside,” Harry breathed. Draco tapped his shoulder with two fingers to confirm that he heard Harry.

Harry’s eyes quickly shot around to take in his surroundings once he opened the side entrance. He spotted a stack of crates between the two open doorways and a third door at the end of the short hall. He strained to hear any sound, and could just make out the echo of something deeper in the warehouse. Harry stepped in and felt Draco following directly behind him. They remained close to the wall, crouching slightly as they crept closer to the first open doorway. Harry paused, holding up a fist and quickly cast a strategic glance around the edge of the door.

Completely empty.

Harry relaxed slightly and shot a look at Draco, shaking his head. Draco pressed his lips together and jerked his chin in the direction of the next door. Together they began to approach the second open doorway. The light spilling from it was bright and florescent, slightly flickering as if a bulb had come loose. Harry made a mental note that it could be electro-magical interference from the possible creatures being transported through the warehouse, or from the suspects performing too much magic in a building with Muggle electricity.

There was another echo through the open door, louder this time and distinctly non-human. Harry looked back at Draco once more, his eyebrows rising. Draco met his look with a similar tilt to his mouth.

Just as they were about to reach the door, Harry heard two voices alarmingly close and just around the corner.

“I can’t believe he’s late _again_ with the lorry,” one voice said. They sounded as if they were coming directly toward Harry and Draco’s position.

Harry’s adrenaline spiked, surging through him, his muscles tensing with intuitive instinct as the second voice agreed about the state of the late lorry. Harry made a quick decision and pulled Draco behind the stack of crates in the middle of the hall, pressing him back against the wall and crouching lower in the tight space. They were sandwiched together with barely an inch between them. Draco had his jaw set and his wand aimed over Harry’s shoulder in the approximate direction of the two men, his line of sight blocked by the crates concealing them. Harry stared at Draco, listening carefully to the men as they came to a stop on the opposite side of the crates. His heart was beating fast, but he wasn’t panicked. This was the part of his work that he thrived on, and Harry felt more in his element.

“You know there’s been buyers scared off because of the Aurors sniffing too close for Roger’s comfort,” the second voice said.

Harry wished he had his Invisibility Cloak with him so he could put a face to the voices they were listening to, but it was tucked away at Grimmauld Place. He placed one hand on Draco’s waist and maneuvered them both so that he had a chance at peeking through a sliver of space between the stacked crates. It was a pointless effort, Harry couldn’t see them through the crack. He exchanged a look with Draco and tried to communicate with just facial expressions that the two men they were listening to could have valuable information about the case. Draco narrowed his eyes at him and gripped the collar of Harry’s jacket with his free hand. Draco knew him too well, and had correctly assumed that Harry had been about to apprehend the men in the hallway.

Harry’s lips quirked into a lopsided grin and he shrugged. He couldn’t help but appreciate the intense expression on Draco’s face, his jaw clenched fiercely and his body poised to move like a viper at any moment if the situation went south. He returned his attention to the other men and bit his lip, hoping to hear more about what they needed the lorry for.

“If he doesn’t get it here soon, the merch is going to get even more restless,” the first man said. His voice was gruff and he had a thick accent. “I won’t be able to get near enough to subdue them, either.”

“We don’t have other means to knock them out,” the second voice pointed out. This man was much milder sounding, and Harry pictured someone who resembled a librarian. “We can’t risk moving them while they’re awake, though. The Muggles would definitely notice.”

“Aye,” the first man agreed solemnly. “In the meantime, we should move these crates and stack them by the main door. We need to be ready to go and make up for the time we’re losing waiting.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the implication that their location was about to be revealed. Together, he and Draco adjusted themselves into a ready stance, prepared to duel their way out of the mess they found themselves in. There was a shuffle of footsteps and then the lights flickered. Harry heard one of them groan in frustration and walk back through the open door.

“Come on, we’ve got to boost the ward around the cages, or they’re going to set off the whole city block,” the second man said.

“We need to find a new location, one farther away from the Muggles,” the first voice complained as it moved away.

Harry waited, counting to sixty, and then let out a breath when it seemed the men were occupied. He relaxed slightly and brought his lips to Draco’s ear.

“That should be enough for a warrant.” Harry’s lips touched Draco’s lobe when he spoke, and he was standing close enough to feel Draco’s body shiver slightly.

Draco nodded in agreement and pressed his fingertips against Harry’s chest. He mouthed _move out_ at Harry and looked pointedly toward their exit. Harry held up a hand to wait a moment longer, just to be sure the other men weren’t going to return suddenly. When he was satisfied, he led them back out of the warehouse and didn’t stop until they were back in their original stakeout spot.

“When they leave, I’ll get word to Rowe about what we were able to learn,” Draco said quietly.

“Okay. I’ll get started on the preliminary portion of the report,” Harry said. “Maybe when they finally move out, we’ll get a glimpse of what class of creature they have.”

“If we’re lucky,” Draco said thoughtfully. “The interference to the Muggle lights is a pretty good indicator that it’s a high class, though. That will mean a more serious charge.”

While they settled back into the stillness of their patrol, Harry felt a reassurance affirming his choice to become an Auror. It had been a good call to take themselves closer to the warehouse, and he was glad that Draco trusted his decision. Harry began going over the details from the last forty-five minutes in his head to know what he would put into the report. He mused that he should probably wait more than several months into being an Auror before contemplating retiring and looking for other work.

*******

It was a dull Thursday afternoon when Draco appeared at Harry’s side in a swirl of scarlet fabric, looking exceedingly proud of himself. Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

“You’ll never guess what happened,” Draco said. His hands were folded behind his back and, when Harry blinked slowly at him, his pleased expression only grew.

Draco tilted his head to the side and pressed his lips between his teeth. “Well, a gentleman was cursed today on Ludgate Hill near the Muggle cathedral. You know what that means, of course.”

There was a pause; Draco looked at Harry expectantly, his eyebrows raising slightly. Harry sighed and pushed away the file jacket he’d been reading over.

“No, enlighten me, oh great one,” Harry deadpanned.

Draco rolled his eyes and brought out what he was hiding behind his back. It was a takeaway bag inside a Stasis Charm.

“I got tandoori chicken and some dosa and biryani from Anjanaas’s Kitchen!” Draco announced with dramatic flair.

Harry blinked again, bemused and his mind lagging. “Wait—shit, Malfoy, did you just leave the man there?”

Draco leveled an offended look at Harry and plopped the bag on Harry’s desk, not paying any mind to the papers. He removed his cloak and sat down.

“Relax, you twat. Of course I didn’t just leave him there. I sent the man straight to St Mungo’s to get sorted, and then I got this before I took the witness statements,” Draco said. He muttered under his breath as he rifled through his leather satchel.

“Oh…alright, then,” Harry said slowly.

He turned to the bag on his desk and cancelled the Stasis over the bag by popping it with a snap of his fingers, exerting a burst of wandless magic. Their cubicle immediately filled the aromatic scent of spices, rich and complex. Harry licked his lips and took a deep whiff.

He noticed the logo on the container as he pulled it out and nearly snorted—it was from the curry shop that _Draco_ liked best from the ones Harry had sampled. But still, Harry began to get flustered as he unpacked the food. Draco had picked up curry takeaway for him, _just because_. He hid a grin as he passed Draco’s order—the dosas with chutney and a small container of sambar—to him and pulled his own out.

Harry couldn’t wipe the happy look from his face for the rest of the day.

*******

Harry shifted around after flopping into bed for the night, retiring early when he’d grown tired of endlessly writing reports. It was the end of November and he could feel the chill of it deep in his bones as he burrowed under the sheets. His hair was still slightly damp from his shower, the ends curling and clinging to his neck. He thought about reading more of the Indian Mythologies that Padma had sent him. He kept the books stacked on his bedside table and read them before he went to sleep; he was in the middle of reading the Mahabharata and he could already tell it would become his favourite, with its themes of good conquering evil. He felt too restless to read at the moment, though, and tilted a guilty glance at the pile of books.

Harry moved about until he was more comfortable and slid his hand down his stomach, palming himself through his loose sleep bottoms. He needed something to take the edge off so that he would be able to fall asleep. He sighed and smoothed his palm over the soft material of his bottoms, lightly touching his soft prick until it began to perk up and fatten.

His thoughts filtered through different bodies and faces, the sensuous soft curve of lips here and a sharp, angled jaw line there. His thoughts swirled and changed, unable to settle on a specific fantasy.

Harry teased his fingers at the elastic waist of his trousers and slid them under, stroking through the wiry curls his dick was nestled in as it began to stand at attention. He let his fingers loosely circle the base and gave it a lazy pump, pulling his foreskin over the plump head as blood rushed to it. He hummed under his breath and traced the sensitive, heated skin, his bare toes curling. Harry sighed again and pushed his hips up, slowly rocking into the circle of his hand. Christ, he loved a nice lazy wank.

He was picturing a pretty dark skinned girl he’d seen on his morning run last week. She had a generous swell to her hips and sleek black hair. Harry worked his hand over his cock. His thoughts strayed from that run to the events of the day that’d followed—namely, seeing Draco get doused in water while on a routine call in a wizard’s house. The pipes had burst from the unsanctioned magically Expanded plumbing and Draco wasn’t quite fast enough with his reflexes to throw up a Protego.

Harry’s cock throbbed pleasantly when he thought of the way Draco had peeled off his cloak and revealed a completely soaked shirt beneath, clinging to every inch of his body, the light material becoming translucent and giving Harry a teasing look at Draco’s skin. He pictured Draco shooting him a coy look and removing his shirt, too, exposing the long pale length of his torso. He’d kept up with the physical training aspect after the Academy as much as Harry had; Harry was sure he was just as fit beneath the billowing cloak as Harry’s body was firm beneath his.

Harry twisted his hand slowly and let his mind wander further back, to their eighth year at Hogwarts. They had never spoke of what happened the entire time they were at the Academy, of what had happened at the end of year party. It never happened again, even though it had been brilliant-but-awkward-but-brilliant in all the ways a first time could be.

Harry bit his lip and reached down to squeeze his balls, massaging and rolling them between his fingers. His breath hitched when he pictured the handful of kisses he’d shared with Draco.

Part of him wanted to bring it up. He imagined sitting on his desk at the office and pulling Draco into the space between his legs, kissing him and whispering against his lips that he wanted to be able to do it all the time. He ground against Draco in his mind while he stroked his prick faster, his breath hitching.

Harry squeezed around his length and rubbed his throbbing erection with urgency, abandoning his lazy and slow wank in favour of fucking into his hand. He ground against his palm while he pictured Draco sinking to the floor on his knees, his fringe brushing against the high line of his cheeks and mouthing at Harry’s erection through his trousers until there was a filthy wet spot.

Harry mirrored his imaginary self and dropped his head back against the pillow, arching his neck and groaning as his balls drew tightly against his body. His hand moved quickly over his dick, sticky and slick. Harry’s toes curled again as Draco smirked knowingly at him in his mental image, closing his lips over his aching cock and taunting Harry with those dancing grey eyes. Harry bucked against his hand and made a choked sound as he came into his fist in hot spurts, spilling over his fingers in a sticky mess.

Harry’s whole body sagged back against the bed. His covers were rumpled and exhaled as his heart slowed back to a normal beat. The tingling aftershocks of his orgasm stretched through his body and he felt lethargy beginning to take over.

Harry rearranged the fantasy in his head and replaced it with the everyday smile that Draco graced him, with their camaraderie over visiting a Muggle pub after work, and the way Draco liked to pinch his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger when he was deep in thought over their cases.

Harry sighed and waved a hand to cast an efficient cleaning charm over himself. He rolled over and settled against his pillow, closing his eyes.

Another part of Harry was afraid to bring up their shared history, though. He’d come close to saying something so many times in the last few years, but he had stopped every time. Harry was afraid of breaking the friendship they’d both built, scared of affecting their partnership and changing the status quo.

Harry felt partially stuck back at Hogwarts because he just couldn’t forget the fleeting moments he’d had with Draco.

He had tried going on dates and having casual flings, but they never felt the _same_ as the one night he’d shared with Draco. It didn’t matter if he found himself attracted to men or women, none of them made his heart pitter-patter in the same way Draco seemed to make his blood sing.

The longest Harry lasted was with one of Ginny’s Quidditch friends during his second year in training—an Irish girl named Selene. She’d been blonde and fit and gave him a run for his money when they had played Quidditch together—but she still wasn’t Draco. His relationship with Selene fizzled out after seven months, and Harry hadn’t tried much after that.

Draco had been a right pain in the arse around her and Harry could never figure out why; he’d always tried to invite Harry out and make plans, but would clam up, growing frosty and eerily posh when Harry invited Selene along. When Draco heard about the breakup, he’d offered to take Harry out for a celebratory pint for being rid of the ‘ _flying twit_ ’. Harry’d turned him down and told Draco he wanted to go home instead, and he’d felt awful, if confused, about the way Draco’s face fell before he’d shuttered his emotions.

*******

On a chilly, early morning midway through December, Harry and Draco were three hours deep into processing a scene from a magical fire incident that had been reported to the Aurors in the hours before dawn crept over the city.

They were in a small wizarding quarter of Camden, standing in the middle of the remaining framework of the decimated building. The scent of burnt magic was heavy in the air, smelling of sour fruit and sulfur, and irritating Harry’s nose. It made him think of how awful the Fiendfyre had been, tearing apart the Room of Hidden Things during the Battle. Harry grimaced and turned to examine another corner of crumbling remains of the wizarding home.

There were other Aurors scattered throughout the scene; some patrolled the perimeter with gleaming white-blue protective wards woven into nets and creating a border against unsuspecting Muggles who wandered through the wizarding quarter. Others picked their way carefully around the scene with Harry and Draco, casting revealing spells and running diagnostics to check for Dark magic.

Harry looked over to Draco and swallowed. He knew he should be focused on the scene, but he couldn’t help being drawn to the striking way Draco looked as the weak morning light filtered through the intact buildings around them. Draco stood out in stark contrast against the ashen remains of the building they were in, with pale skin swathed in the scarlet of his Auror cloak and the polished golden bars signifying his rank glinting when he moved. The breeze made Draco’s fringe blow, fluttering away from his face.

“I’ve got something,” Draco announced.

Harry froze, wanting to look away from Draco to hide that he’d been subtly checking him out instead of doing his job.

Two other Aurors in the vicinity turned to him, along with Harry. Draco was looking at the corner of what had once been a sitting room—or so Harry assumed from what was left of the sofa—frowning, his expression calculating as he worked out the puzzle of the scene.

“What do you have, Malfoy?” Auror Proudfoot asked when she walked over to his side.

Draco pointed his wand at a shock of white seemingly embedded into the support beam he had been examining. It looked like a wonky lightning bolt, narrowing down and darkening to a blackened point. He cast a spell that washed over the beam with a purple glow. Draco sighed and turned to shoot Proudfoot an uneasy look.

“Signs of arson, I believe,” Draco said.

“Good work, Malfoy,” Proudfoot said. She signaled another team that was standing nearby. “Get a Potions Analyst from the DMLE crime scene squad to have a look at this. Keep working the scene, everyone.”

Draco picked his way across the soot and debris on the floor to Harry’s side.

“Late night, Potter?” he asked lightly.

“What?” Harry blurted, startled and trying to pretend his gaze hadn’t been glued to Draco’s every move for the last two hours. “No, I just, er…”

“It’s fine. We’re friends, Potter,” Draco said, his mouth curving up briefly. “You can feel free to tell me who tired you out with a wild shag,” Draco tacked on with an edge to his voice that Harry didn’t understand.

Harry made a renewed effort to look like he was busy processing the crime scene, waving his wand and casting a diagnostic over what was left of the fireplace. He chanced a peek at Draco out of the corner of his eye and noticed the way Draco’s mouth pinched. Harry wanted to run his fingers through Draco’s hair and kiss the corners of Draco’s mouth until his lips relaxed into an easy smile again.

“Don’t be daft,” Harry said after a moment, coughing awkwardly to clear the tightness in his throat. “That’s not—”

Draco waved him off with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and moved away to study another room.

Harry wanted to reach out, to say something— _anything_ —to wipe away the clouded look in his grey eyes. Instead of doing any of that, Harry found himself lost in the way Draco worried his lip when he was thinking as they settled back into work.

*******

“Are we stopping on the way to yours to pick up dinner?” Draco asked while they packed up their respective satchels at the Auror office at the end of the day.

Harry hummed in assent, absent-mindedly dumping his files into his bag while Draco took care with his. One of them slipped free of the bag and spilled across his desk, bumping his succulent. He reached out and nudged his golden figurine of Ganesh, the god of good fortune and success, to make sure it was pointing to the East once more when he accidentally knocked it out of alignment. Padma and Parvati had warned him when he asked about getting something for his desk—wanting to ensure he wasn’t doing anything wrong—that he should face in the right direction. Harry kept a careful eye on it—the _last_ thing he wanted was to offend any gods.

Harry’s stomach rumbled and he was eager to get back to Grimmauld Place to unwind from a long day of tedium and procedure. It was curry night, and Harry’s turn to host everyone for dinner.

His eyes strayed from the haphazard mess of his desk to Draco’s. Draco always left his desk pristine and organized, taking care to stack his reports in neat piles of _open_ , _pending_ , and _closed_. His ridiculous quills were cleaned and put away in the pot from Teddy. He was meticulous about which files he selected to bring home with him, picking out cases that proved to be particularly challenging to piece together based on the evidence gathered.

It wasn’t that Harry didn’t care about the cases they had open, or the work, he just did so much better when it was in the moment and he could take action, or when there were people to talk to instead of things to speculate on. Sometimes Harry would flash back to memories of when he was on the run during the war with Ron and Hermione, and how he relied on her to figure the Horcruxes out. Draco was better at the actual evidence analysing and puzzling the pieces together. Harry operated entirely on his instincts. It was why they made such a great team, because they balanced each other out, but it frustrated Harry when protocol trapped them in the Auror office, rather than allowing them to hit the streets when they had leads.

Harry made a mildly impatient sound and slung the strap of his satchel over his shoulder while he waited for Draco. “Ready yet? At this rate everyone else will get there before we do. I don’t want Parkinson to find my secret biscuit stash just because Kreacher likes her so much.”

“Hush, I’m trying to decide between these two,” Draco reprimanded, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth while he peered back and forth between the files he held in either hand.

“Just bring both,” Harry suggested. He stepped closer and plucked the file jackets from Draco and deposited them into the satchel sitting on Draco’s desk.

Draco tilted an impertinent look. “You are impossibly irritating when you are ready to leave for the day.”

“Says the person who thinks leaving fifteen minutes early is an acceptable practice,” Harry said, tipping his head forward.

Draco waved him off. “It is when I arrive early every morning.”

“Ah, so you finally admit that you’re coming in _early_ , which would make me _on time_ and not _late_ ,” Harry crowed. He closed the flap on Draco’s satchel and lifted his scarlet Auror cloak from the hook on the wall of their cubicle, handing both over.

Draco couldn’t hide his expression from Harry, even as he turned away to drape his cloak over the elegant set of his shoulders. His eyes danced with mirth and his lips curved into an enticing, self-satisfied smile.

Harry felt a swoop of affection for him and gave Draco a light, playful shove that made Draco blink in surprise, almost overbalancing. He followed Harry to the lift. They left the Ministry together, emerging from a public Apparition point to a Muggle street close to Grimmauld Place.

Draco ducked into one of the towpaths to discreetly glamour the scarlet of their robes to muted blue and charcoal so that they didn’t stand out. Draco just looked like he was wearing some designer swathe of fabric, instead of the prestigious Auror uniform with the DMLE insignia on it. Harry looked down at the navy of his robes and nodded, satisfied. His robes more closely resembled Muggle attire and made it easier for him to blend in.

When they neared the takeaway Harry liked near his house, he caught a whiff of ginger and onion in the air as the door opened. He grinned, letting his eyes close and took a deep inhale of the complex spices. His stomach rumbled in anticipation and Harry couldn’t hold back a tiny groan at how good the food smelled.

Draco sucked in a breath at his side; Harry looked over to him, but he refused to let Harry catch his eye. A light snow had started to fall on their walk and Draco’s cheeks and the tip of his nose were red. There were snowflakes clinging to his pale lashes and clumping the tips of his fine hair. Harry wanted to reach out and brush them away, but they were already at the entrance to the takeaway shop.

Draco shivered, darting a quick look at Harry before he held open the door for him. Harry stepped through with a murmured, “Thanks,” and waved to one of the servers behind the counter. Draco followed in behind him and stood close behind Harry; he could almost feel the expanse of Draco’s chest behind him, every hair on the back of his neck standing at attention to the close proximity. Draco’s hand lighted on Harry’s arm for a second before it disappeared and he skirted around Harry to approach the counter.

Draco rattled off an order, his eyes flying over the menu hanging overhead and asking about extra sauce on the side.

“And can we get an additional order of roti, too?” Draco finished. He turned to look over his shoulder at Harry. “Anything else you want?”

Harry’s eyes travelled over Draco and he hesitated before answering. He spoke up when Draco prompted, “Potter?”

“Let’s get some masala dosa, too. Hermione likes those,” Harry said.

Draco nodded and turned back to the young girl jotting down their order onto a pad. Her long dark hair was plaited into a sleek braid hanging over her shoulder.

Harry and Draco hovered in a corner of the shop to wait for their food to be ready. It didn’t take long before it was packaged up for them and they were venturing into the light snowfall once more, the delicious aroma of their dinner wafting around them while they walked to Harry’s house.

After walking in and dropping off the food in the kitchen, Harry went to the sitting room to Floo his friends and stopped in the doorway.

Pansy was sitting on the loveseat, one long leg crossed over the other with Harry’s secret box of biscuits resting against her hip. He could see the tips of Kreacher’s bat-like, wrinkled ears over the arm of the sofa, hovering at her side in a way that he never was when Harry was around. He had taken a shine to her early on, always waiting to be of more use to her. Whenever she was around he seemed to just _know_ ; he came back from Hogwarts every time to wait on her every need.

“Pansy,” Harry greeted. “Are those my biscuits?”

“Potter. They are,” she said succinctly. Her lips stretched into a cat-like grin. “Welcome home.”

Draco appeared at his shoulder. “Hello, darling.”

“Draco,” Pansy said, tone warmer than the one she used for Harry.

It was full of affection and it always made a niggling of jealousy skitter through Harry, even though he knew how long they’d been friends. She held out a hand expectantly and Draco closed the distance between them, taking her hand and helping her as she unfolded herself gracefully from the sofa. Harry pursed his lips and lamented that Slytherins were always moving with much more grace than he or any of his other friends did.

Pansy pressed her painted lips to Draco’s cheeks and Harry ignored them in favour of veering in the direction of the Floo. He shot a pointed look at Kreacher as he passed him, one that said: _I see exactly what you’re doing here_ , and was satisfied by the way Kreacher gave him a wide berth, ears drooping before he Disapparated from the room. It wasn’t that they didn’t get along—they did, for the most part, especially after the first few months Harry lived there when Kreacher had been a nightmare. Back then, he’d constantly been wailing about his Mistress’s noble house falling into disrepair and doing all he could to buck Harry’s control over him as his Master, recalcitrant to the last. Their standing agreement was that Harry wouldn’t take Kreacher’s cleaning duties from him as long as Kreacher didn’t cook any more meals that he deemed “traditional pure-blood dishes”. He also convinced Kreacher to spend more time at Hogwarts and to only come back to Grimmauld on the weekends if he wanted to. After Harry didn’t have to deal with things like Flobberworm soup and Grindylow livers anymore, they began to tolerate each other’s presence more. Now the only true sore spot between them was Kreacher’s love of Pansy Parkinson and Harry’s dwindling stash of Jammie Dodgers.

Harry dropped a pinch of powder into the crackling flames and crouched down, calling out Ron and Hermione’s address.

“We’re home and Parkinson’s got into my biscuits again,” Harry shouted into the green flames when the firecall connected. “Back up required, or you won’t get fed!”

Harry shuffled backward when Ron was through the Floo in record time, still wearing an apron with the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes logo on it.

“You should’ve called as soon as you got in,” Ron said in greeting. Harry snorted and Hermione appeared at his side, arriving in a flare of flames.

“Malfoy and I just got in,” Harry said. Hermione planted a kiss on his cheek and stepped around him, taking Ron’s hand and pulling her with him.

“Are we waiting for Blaise to get here, or should I go get the plates?” Hermione asked.

“Plates,” Draco said, nodding to Hermione. “Granger. Weasley.” He turned back to Pansy and used his wand to close up the biscuit box left on the sofa and sent it floating after Hermione and Ron to the kitchen. “So, they’re trying to get you to enter into a proposal contract by Boxing Day? That seems much too soon,” he said to Pansy, picking up the thread of their conversation once more.

“I know. They’ll never get me to agree to it, though,” Pansy said confidently. “I don’t know why they think I’ll cow to them now, when I’ve never done what they expected of me before. I think it’s because daddy’s been dealing in unsavoury trades again.”

Draco hummed sagely as the pair of them spoke a language of higher class that Harry didn’t understand. Harry turned back to the Floo once more and connected to Zabini’s Floo.

“Oi! Supper’s served if you feel like honouring us with your shining presence,” Harry yelled over the roar of flames. He could hear the echo of Zabini’s laughter through his parlour and caught a glimpse of his bare calf, muscled and dark-skinned, when he walked by his grate.

“If you don’t hurry over, I won’t be held responsible for them not saving you anything,” Harry said gravely.

“Give me fifteen minutes,” Zabini said in a smooth voice. “I was finishing up with entertaining a guest.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Zabini always seemed to be with someone, either balls or tongue deep in them or vice versa. Draco liked to say it was a result of maternal related influence from growing up with one too many stepfathers. Harry just liked to think of him as a bit of a slag, but as long as he was having fun with his partners, who was Harry to judge?

“Don’t complain to me when there’s no food left for you because you were too busy getting your dick wet, then,” Harry said pointedly. He could still hear Zabini’s hearty chuckles when he pulled his face back from the fire. “Zabini’s coming late,” he announced to no one in particular, rising from his knees.

Hermione and Ron re-entered the room with the take away containers bobbing in a trail behind them along with utensils, plates, and beer.

“Good, more roti and curry for me,” Ron gloated, nicking one of the flatbread containers from where they levitated in the air.

“There’s plenty for everyone,” Draco said.

He and Pansy conjured plump cushions to sit on and sank to the floor. Hermione and Ron began dishing out food on the coffee table. Harry turned to his telly. It was the only one he could get to work with the amount of magic in the house—an older model, chunky box television with rabbit ears that always had tracking static across the bottom of the screen. Arthur liked to tinker with it whenever he visited to see if he could adjust the picture with the remote settings and tried casting wards around it to separate it from Grimmauld’s latent magic. It worked, and that was all Harry cared about.

“EastEnders or a film?” Harry asked the group, looking through his meagre collection of movies picked up from Camden Market.

“EastEnders!” Draco and Ron cheered, while Hermione and Pansy simultaneously voted, “Movie!”

“That leaves it up to you, Potter. I will make your life very difficult at work if you don’t choose wisely,” Draco said haughtily. Harry tossed a look over his shoulder at him. “Don’t give me that face; you know I don’t make idle threats.”

“Malfoy, _all_ you do is make idle threats,” Harry said with a put-upon sigh. “EastEnders it is. But that means we watch a movie next time.”

He turned the telly on and settled on the floor between Ron and Hermione, accepting a plate heaped with delicious smelling food. He hummed to himself as he breathed it in, catching a quick movement out of the corner of his eye. When Harry looked up, Draco was staring at the screen with hyper focus. Harry tore off a piece of roti and dipped it in the dish of sauce before him. When he ate it, the flavour burst on his tongue, spicy and savoury, leaving a lingering heat.

Ron sat at the end of the coffee table and his socked feet settled over Harry’s lap. Hermione leaned against Harry’s side and offered him bites of her dosa, even though he had a serving of one sitting on his plate. Harry leaned back against the sofa comfortably while the theme song to EastEnders filtered from the telly’s old speakers. Pansy dropped all pretense of posture and was slumped down against the coffee table, leaning on her elbow and scooping bites of rice into her mouth. Some of the rice stuck to the corner of it. Draco was the only one of them to sit up straight, taking care while he ate. Harry loved watching the faces Draco made any time he tried different sauces, especially the spicier ones.

Just after the intro reel finished, the Floo flared and Zabini strolled in, sitting on the opposite end of the coffee table next to Draco and helping himself to food without missing a beat. Draco mumbled a greeting to him, his face scrunched in a battle against the heat of the roti sauce.

Harry was glad that eighth year helped smooth things over between the Houses—and in particular between his friends and the other Slytherins, because it was nice to be able to get together and share a meal with everyone every other week. It was the routine of it that Harry enjoyed most, knowing that he had a guarantee he would spend time with people he cared for. It felt like an extension of family, one that Harry collected and made his own when his and Draco’s lives continued to blend together.

He stretched and almost dislodged Ron’s feet, laughing when Ron wobbled and came dangerously close to losing his balance and toppling sideways. Hermione’s hand slid under the table and wrapped around Ron’s ankle to steady him; it remained there and Harry could see the shadow of her thumb stroking back and forth over Ron’s skin where his trouser leg rode up. He peeked over at the others and saw Blaise was distracting Pansy, regaling her with the tale of his afternoon escapades in a quiet murmur. Draco hushed them repeatedly, paying close attention to the drama unfolding on the screen. He loved the Muggle programmes, though Harry couldn’t understand why.

When Harry was finished eating, he tipped his head back against a pillow from the sofa and dozed, feeling warm and full and happy while his and Draco’s friends all bickered. In between closing his eyes for long stretches, Harry snuck stolen glances at the way the glow from the telly illuminated Draco’s hair in the dim light of the sitting room. It made Draco’s eyes look like they were gleaming, almost as if the light was coming from his eyes instead of the television.

*******

A hand on Harry’s shoulder stopped him on his way to the bank of lifts in the Atrium. Harry turned and smiled when he saw his old Duelling Tactics instructor standing there.

“Morning, Harry,” Jermaine West said cheerfully. “Might I borrow you for the day? The trainees are working on duelling and strategy theory and have a practical demonstration scheduled today; I’d love to have you lend a hand.”

Harry blinked, quite surprised by the request, though he’d been top of the class in duelling—he had even bested Draco’s high marks in the theory exams. No one could match him for the practical portion of the class. A burst of warmth and pride spread through Harry’s chest, his stomach somersaulting pleasantly. He could feel himself grinning wide and answering before he could even consider his work diary for the day.

“I—yeah, of course,” he said, slightly breathless with a sudden rush of excitement. “That would be brilliant!”

“Wonderful,” Jermaine said with a relieved smile. He clapped Harry on the shoulder and gestured towards the wall of fireplaces opposite the lifts. “I’ll pop ahead and begin setting up. We’re still in classroom two.”

“Alright, then.” Harry nodded and tipped his head toward the bank of lifts. “I’ll just let my partner know I’ll be out for the day.”

Harry turned to the gilded iron grate; it slid open when he stepped up to it, a disembodied voice announcing that it would be departing momentarily. Harry switched his satchel from one shoulder to the other, and then held it in his hands. He was jittery with butterflies and couldn’t seem to hold still as the lift filled with two other Ministry employees before pelting away from the Atrium.

When the lift came to a stop on Level 2 and the disembodied voice announced, “ _Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters_ —” Harry stepped off before it finished speaking. He strode toward the cubicles at a quick clip. He didn’t want to be late getting to the Training Centre and miss any of the class.

Draco was already seated in their shared cubicle, as usual, with a steaming cup of Earl Grey at his elbow. 

“You’re an extra two minutes later than usual today, Potter. Must be a new record,” Draco said sardonically without looking at him. 

He had the _Daily Prophet_ spread in front of him and was reading an article on the second page beneath the fold that named them both as the capturing team on record in a recent raid on a warehouse near the back end of Diagon Alley that resulted in the capture of Dark wizards. Harry’s mouth quirked into a fond smile when he saw Draco’s finger tracing over their names. Harry leaned down over Draco’s shoulder and hummed. 

“Look at you, all famous with your name in the paper,” Harry teased lightly. 

Draco flicked Harry on the nose before he could dodge it, but Harry saw the way a flush crept up his neck when he turned away. 

“Instructor West just tapped me to join his class today,” Harry informed him, straightening up again. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. 

Draco swiveled in his chair to face him and raised an eyebrow. “I see they finally have done something about my K.A.R.M.A. claim tickets that you need more training.” 

Harry pulled one hand out of his pockets to flip two fingers at Draco. “You’re only sore I’ve got the better marks from Duelling Tactics in the Field. You know you still took top of the class overall, you utter swot.” 

Draco seemed to straighten infinitesimally in his chair, looking prim and proud of himself. He reached out to absently fold up the copy of the _Prophet_ and straightened each of the stacks of paperwork on his desk. Harry watched and felt his heart thudding in his chest while he watched, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Er,” Harry said after Draco finished his meticulous rearrangement of his desk. “So, you’ll be on your own for the day. Don’t try doing anything reckless, like I would.” 

Draco hummed in response and waved at him without looking back up. He gave a longsuffering sigh and delicately plucked a report folder from the top of the stack to his left. “Very well, Potter. Go have fun back at school while the rest of us Aurors are left to do the real work.” 

“See you later,” Harry said before leaving. 

When Harry reached the end of the hall, before it veered away from the open area filled with cubicles, he caught Draco looking at him. His head snapped back to his work just as Harry glanced in his direction. 

Harry returned to the Atrium and used the Floo to get to the Academy Training Centre. As Harry navigated the familiar halls to the correct classroom, he experienced the same nerves he had back when Dumbledore’s Army was first started. He grinned ruefully to himself and shook his head. When he reached the doorway, he rapped on the frame with his knuckles. West looked up and nodded to him. 

“Thanks, Harry. The schedule is still the same from when you were in their shoes: morning lecture on theory, a break for lunch, and then a practical course in the afternoon,” Instructor West explained. 

Trainee students began to trickle into the room as the start of class drew near. Harry noticed that some of them shot him furtive double takes after they were seated, but otherwise no one made a scene. Harry conjured a chair and settled himself near a corner to the side of Jermaine’s desk, setting his satchel on the floor and glancing at his old instructor. 

Jermaine was a man in his late fifties with a big personality and an even bigger smile full of perfectly white teeth. He had plump lips, rich sable skin, a wide nose, and stood almost a whole head taller than Harry, who was tall in his own right. During his training days, Jermaine was one of Harry’s favourite instructors. When Harry had faltered and doubted his desire to become an Auror, Jermaine—along with Draco—pushed him past his doubts and helped him succeed in the programme. 

“Let’s settle in, trainees,” West called when the last student filed in. The murmurs and quiet chatter that had filled the room while students took out their course books and quills faded to attentive silence. “We have a special guest helping me with today’s class on Duelling Tactics in the Field. Everyone, please welcome Auror Potter.” 

There was a brief, polite round of clapping and Harry nodded self-consciously to a couple of students in the front row, feeling his ears and face prickling with heat. He wished Jermaine hadn’t called him _special_ ; he was just Harry. The trainees weren’t much younger than him—some he even recognised from two and three years below him at Hogwarts. Harry shifted in his seat and unbuttoned the top button of his Auror robes. The attention was only on him for a few short moments until Jermaine began his class. Harry felt himself relaxing while Jermaine gave an overview of where the class had left off in the material. 

West held the trainee’s rapt attention as he dove into the theory he was teaching. He was an animated and lively teacher, which helped him keep everyone interested. Harry remembered one instructor for a class on the history of protocols that reminded him of Binns; he’d been so dull and frail that Harry was always in danger of falling asleep in that class. Draco resorted to creative ways to keep Harry awake, like Hexing him at random to make sure Harry’s senses were always keenly aware of his surroundings. He’d been a pain in the arse then, but it’d helped Harry get the best marks in duelling and honed his awareness of his surroundings. 

West went over the theory of duelling while under duress and its principles in Auror work, and used examples that provoked thoughtful questions from the trainees. 

“What do you do when you have innocents to protect while facing off with a suspect?” asked a witch in the third row. She had dark eyes and darker hair pulled into a severe bun. 

Jermaine looked to Harry and nodded. “Why don’t you answer this one?” 

Harry shifted in his conjured chair and considered what to say to the class. He and Draco had only encountered a handful of serious missions that fit the question—most of their work as Aurors was spent on more mundane disputes. He took a breath and let it out, calling on his experiences from the war to fill in the gaps. 

“You do what you have to, but you have to protect lives first,” he said. “Listen to your instincts, because the second you hesitate and try to reason something out is the crucial difference between protecting innocent civilians and neutralising your suspect.” 

Several of the trainees scribbled Harry’s answer into their notebooks while West nodded and segued into how best to balance defensive and offensive spells while in a dangerous situation. 

After they took a break for lunch, the class trekked out to the Training Centre’s field demonstration area—a room similar to the Room of Requirement, filled with obstacles and a changing landscape to suit the needs of the demonstration. 

Jermaine lined his students along the far wall and Harry leaned against a fake conjured tree to watch. Jermaine brought them out in pairs and had them alternating between offensive and defensive duelling techniques that were common in the line of duty. 

Harry looked on from the shade of the tree and mentally took note of which trainees would do well in the Aurors and which needed more work based on their performances. 

“Now, I’m going to have Auror Potter show you something more to speed while I narrate it out for you,” West announced. “Harry?” 

Harry pushed away from the tree and felt the eyes of the trainees on him as he walked to the centre of the room before them. At the beginning of the day he’d felt self-conscious, but after spending hours with them already he was beginning to grow more comfortable in front of them. Harry drew his wand and slipped into a duelling stance like it was a well-worn glove. 

“Take note of his form, everyone,” Jermaine said, mirroring Harry’s stance. 

Harry counted his breaths, inhaling steadily through his nose and exhaling through parted lips. His instincts kicked in, almost as if there was a spark of electricity in the air, and he had a Protego cast before Jermaine even circled his wrist in the first motion of his non-verbal spell. 

“Good,” West praised, already casting another spell at Harry. “See what Auror Potter is doing? This is why learning the theory is so important. True, some of you are natural duelists, but as an Auror you’re forced into situations that make survival supersede classic duelling etiquette.” 

“The criminals you face off against won’t play nice or give you time to take your turn, either,” Harry added as he spun away from Jermaine’s Stupefy. “Staying alert and one step ahead of whatever might be cast at you is the key here.” 

“Too right,” West said with a nod, twirling his wand in an intricate pattern to cast something obscure at him. 

Harry was prepared for it with one of his own, something Draco had come up with in his spare time. It burst from Harry’s wand with a flash of orange light and barrelled in Jermaine’s direction in a tangle of sparks. Jermaine evaded it at the last second and it coiled around a tree, tightening like the body of a snake to incapacitate its target. It wasn’t regulation for training courses, but Jermaine let it slide without comment. Harry grinned and let the adrenaline of the duel carry him through his movements like they were engaged in a dance, Harry dodging and casting in fluid motions. 

Harry nearly let himself get so into the duel that he was about to go for the ending shot, preparing to stun West, but he pulled back at the last minute when his old instructor held up a hand. 

“Okay, who is ready to apply what you’ve seen to your own practice?” At Jermaine’s prompt, the trainees sprung into the open space, squaring off with each other. 

Harry took West’s lead and began walking around to each pair of dueler’s, watching them trade defensive and offensive spells. He offered tips and observations for where some students could improve, and adjustments they could make. 

Throughout the entire duration of the class, Harry didn’t feel on display. In fact, he loved helping West instruct the duelling class. He was filled with an invigorating joy each time one of the students listened to him with serious expressions, focused on his advice and applied it, succeeding with great whoops of triumph. Harry cheered with them when they got something right or performed well. 

The afternoon seemed to fly by, so much quicker than it did when Harry was stuck in the cubicle in Auror Headquarters with droll paperwork. He nearly didn’t want the day to end, except he was ready to bite his arm off to go see Draco and tell him how wonderful his day had been. 

When the end of the class finally did come, Harry hung back after waving to some of the students. Jermaine was packing up his textbooks and flicking a cleaning charm at the blackboard. 

“Thank you for your help today, Harry,” he said warmly. “You did really well.” 

“Thanks,” Harry said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I…really enjoyed it. I, er, sort of started a Defense…club of sorts during my fifth year and we picked it back up again during our last year at Hogwarts. I like helping people learn.” 

“You’re good at it, too,” Jermaine pointed out. 

“Listen, if you ever need help again, I can come back. Just let me know,” Harry offered, squeezing the leather of his satchel strap between his fingers. 

“Sure thing, Harry,” Jermaine agreed. They left the class together, walking down the Training Centre hall toward the circular entrance chamber. “See you later.” 

“Bye,” Harry called before he stepped into the Floo. “Ministry of Magic, Atrium.” 

Harry left the Training Centre in a swirl of green flames and when he arrived at the Ministry he rushed straight to the lift. 

Energy bubbled in Harry, ready to overflow while he waited in the lift to Level 2. He bounced on the balls of his feet as the lift jerked in different directions, impatient to get back to the cubicle in the Auror Department. He was glad he was alone; he wasn’t sure he would be able to contain himself, even in the presence of others. 

When the lift finally pinged its arrival at the DMLE, Harry burst out of it before the grate had finished opening all the way. He hurried down the hall, his cheeks almost hurting from how widely he was smiling. 

“Malfoy!” Harry said as soon as he was close enough their cubicle. 

Draco looked up at him and raised his eyebrows. “You know, without you here I actually managed to finish four reports today.” 

Harry chuckled and flopped into his chair, letting his satchel slump off his shoulders. Draco was looking at him with strange reservation. 

“I’d wager you only completed them because you didn’t have any calls to respond to,” Harry said. “Protocol four-six-two-nine: if an Auror team is without both parties, field work will be suspended until both members of a team are able-bodied.” 

Draco scoffed. “Look who’s finally memorised the handbook.” 

“Well, I’m glad you were able to get a lot of work done,” Harry offered. 

He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. Harry could tell from the way Draco’s mouth twisted that his hair was probably sticking on end worse than usual. 

“It was a day filled with paperwork,” Draco said after a moment. “You make my days more...interesting.” 

Harry’s gaze snapped to him, his stomach bottoming out. He smoothed his palms over the armrests of his chair, his feet still tapping with excess energy. 

“My day was—amazing,” Harry said after hesitating on how to describe what he’d been feeling all day in the Training Centre. “It was…helping the trainees felt so much like helping the members of the D.A..” 

“You are very good at helping others that way,” Draco said, watching him closely. 

Harry ducked his head, grinning impossibly wide. He felt like he was glowing, both from how wonderful his day had been and from Draco’s praise. 

“You look…” Draco trailed off and cleared his throat, darting his eyes away from Harry once more. “Your day seems as if it was more eventful than mine.” 

“The practical session went great,” Harry said, excitement building as the day replayed itself in his head. “There was a trainee who was having trouble with a duelling combination while Instructor West was firing the standard distractions,” he babbled, gesturing with his hands and rolling his chair closer to Draco’s. Harry couldn’t help the broad smile from his face. “And when I saw that the problem was that she didn’t see the pattern, I pointed it out, and then _she got it_ , thanks to my help!” 

Draco hummed, looking amused. His grey eyes were bright and there was a tinge of pink in his cheeks while he watched Harry. The curve of his mouth was soft—it was a look Harry loved seeing on his face, especially when he directed it at Harry. 

“I see you’re content to slack off from your _real_ job as an Auror to faff around with the trainees,” Draco said, a hint of sharpness creeping into his voice that made Harry blink. Draco looked away, meticulously setting his quill down in the colourful quill pot from Teddy. “Perfectly happy to leave your partner on his own—very noble of you, Potter.” 

Harry slouched back in his chair, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth and his brows pinching together. 

“I’d never abandon you,” Harry said. “We’re partners; I’ve got your back.” 

Draco slowly slid his gaze back to Harry, his eyes clouded over for a moment before they cleared. “I know you wouldn’t. You’re too… _you_.” 

Harry relaxed and crossed one ankle over the other when he stretched out. “What reports did you finish today? If you’re done, we can go down to the Silver Cross for a bowl of chips.” 

“Sounds like a divine plan,” Draco said. 

*******

The smell of fresh spices filled Harry’s kitchen at Grimmauld Place as he bustled around it with Molly, cooking a batch of curry to go with the chicken she brought over. They had the wireless playing in the background and Molly was fussing over Harry trying to offer her clippings from his herb garden.

“Harry, dear, I couldn’t possibly—you keep them for yourself,” Molly repeated once more. She intercepted him and pulled the cuttings out of the small basket Harry had been trying to sneak them into so he could send her home with them.

“Why not? You brought me chicken, I’m only returning the favour,” Harry pointed out with a cheerful grin. “Let me say thank you by giving you something from the garden.”

“Your sauce is going to boil over, dear,” Molly said instead of answering Harry.

He abandoned the herbs to rush over to the hob, lowering the heat to allow the curry to simmer. He gave it a stir and brought the wooden spoon to his lips, blowing on the steaming sauce before tasting it. Harry smacked his lips together and reached over for more turmeric to sprinkle in, stirring once more. The zesty, ginger-rich aroma was heaven and had Harry’s stomach rumbling in anticipation of the dinner he was preparing.

The kitchen Floo unexpectedly flared to life, green flames rising higher. Harry turned to greet his guest, expecting Ron or Hermione, when Draco stepped over the grate. Harry’s expression brightened and he took a step toward Draco, wiping his hands on the apron tied around his hips.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked. “Did we have plans that I’ve forgot again?”

“No,” Draco said, waving him off. He nodded politely to Molly and seated himself at the kitchen table. “I actually had plans with Mother, but she needed to rest. I…decided to come see if you were busy instead.”

Draco’s cheeks had a tinge of pink to them and he quickly ducked his face, not meeting Harry’s eyes for too long. Harry bit his lip while Draco’s eyes were averted and rubbed the corner of his apron between his thumb and forefinger.

“That’s great!” Harry said. Draco shot him a sharp look and Harry coughed, clearing his throat. “Not—I mean, no, not that your mother is unwell. I just…it’s great that you’ve come over. It’s a nice surprise.”

Harry stumbled clumsily over his words, squeezing the back of his neck and resisting the immediate desire to go bury his face in the sofa cushions in embarrassment. Draco’s flush seemed to deepen for a moment at Harry’s admission, though. Harry couldn’t be sure if it was from the heat in his kitchen from cooking all afternoon, or if Draco was actually effected by Harry’s pleasant surprise at his presence.

“So...tea?” he offered faintly.

Draco relaxed back in his seat and folded his hands primly. “Yes, thank you. What are you cooking?”

“Chicken curry and veg,” Harry said as he turned to pull out a seat for Mrs Weasley. “Here, Molly, come sit down. You’ve been on your feet the whole time you’ve been here.”

“Thank you, dear,” Molly said with a warm smile.

She was glancing back and forth between Harry and Draco with an expression she typically reserved for when Harry brought a date over to the Burrow. Her scrutiny made him feel self conscious around his Auror partner.

“It should be ready soon,” Harry said. He set the kettle over heat and gave his curry another stir, leaning over the saucepan to breathe the aroma in. He impulsively took a spoonful and walked back over to the table, cupping one hand below the ladle so it wouldn’t spill. “Here, taste this.”

Harry halted when he reached Draco’s side.

Draco was peering up at him with an unreadable expression and he slowly parted his lips when Harry held the spoonful of curry in front of him. Harry watched raptly as Draco closed his lips around it and slowly tasted his creation. Time seemed to slow for several seconds. Draco’s eyes fluttered shut, his long blond lashes brushing his cheeks and a serene look crossed his face. Belatedly, Draco hummed his appreciation and licked his bottom lip, seeking sauce that he missed.

“That’s…quite good, Potter,” Draco said, looking back up at him.

Harry blinked and darted a look over to Molly, remembering she was in the room with them. She said nothing, but she was watching with interest. Harry laughed nervously and shuffled back over to the stove to hide the way his ears were burning. Molly would be able to tell how Harry felt immediately.

“Um, yeah,” Harry said. “I put the dry spices in first for a minute to really get the aroma going.”

“You’re getting better,” Draco said, warmth creeping into his tone. He sounded fond and it made Harry’s stomach flutter. “That tastes much closer to our favourite curry houses around the city. You’ve improved from the last time you let me try your cooking.”

Harry was glad he was still facing away from Draco and Molly, or they would see the way Draco’s praise affected him. His grip flexed on the handle of the spoon as he swirled it through his simmering curry.

“I think I’ve nearly got my grandfather’s recipe perfected,” Harry said softly. “It’s really nice to have this piece of him now, that I didn’t know was there before.”

“I’m certain he would agree,” Draco said, just as gently.

“I’m going to take a pass on that cup of tea, Harry,” Molly said suddenly.

Harry turned to look curiously at her over his shoulder. She smiled and tilted her head without any subtlety toward Draco.

“I’ve got to be getting home. Fleur and Bill are coming round with Victoire,” Molly said apologetically. “I’ll see you for supper tomorrow.”

She stood slowly; Harry knew her knees bothered her when the weather turned colder. Molly came over and stood on her tiptoes to pull Harry’s cheek down for a kiss. He wrapped her in a tight hug and pressed another kiss on top of her head.

“Thank you for coming by,” Harry murmured, feeling slightly exposed in front of Draco. Harry could feel his eyes on the pair of them. “Please take the herbs with you!”

Molly swatted his shoulder good-naturedly. “I’ve said no a hundred times already! Why don’t you give them to Draco?”

Molly turned to him expectantly and gestured to the cuttings from Harry’s garden that were sitting on the counter. “Those are freshly grown by Harry. There’s some gurdyroot that you could make an infusion with for your mother to help her ailments.”

Draco looked from Molly to Harry with a slightly bewildered expression. Before he could answer, Molly was waving and gathering her handbag, stepping into the Floo and spinning away in a burst of green flames.

“So,” Harry said after a moment of silence. He felt less on display without Molly there. “I have all of this food and no one to eat it with. Want to stay for dinner?”

“I’d like that, I suppose,” Draco said with a faint smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. “As I said before, I don’t have any plans. We can save the tea for after.”

“Brilliant. You know where everything is. Will you set the table while I finish up with this?” Harry turned back to the stove and, after a moment, began to hum along to the Weird Sisters song that was playing on the wireless.

Draco moved around his kitchen with a comfortable ease, as if he belonged there. Harry liked that sentiment quite a bit, letting his imagination run off while he enjoyed Draco’s presence brightening his kitchen.

*******

Harry dug his fingers into the dirt as he lost himself in thought several days later. It was a dreary, chilly day for February, but the greenhouse ward spell Neville showed him allowed him to keep his therapeutic gardening habit year round.

The day before, Harry and Draco were locked in a brief chase to catch a fleeing suspect. They had cast a curse aimed at Draco, and Harry’d done some quick thinking on his feet to protect his partner. Harry was shaken up over the thought of Draco getting hurt in the line of duty. Later, when they apprehended the wizard, Draco had put a hand on Harry’s arm and offered his usual, teasing, “bad cop, worse cop?” and Harry had known, then, that he was alright—that he was worried for nothing.

It hadn’t been anything remarkably out of the ordinary, but it had briefly soothed and reassured Harry that he was doing all right as an Auror. He couldn’t bring himself to imagine what would have happened if Draco didn’t have him as a partner during that chase—or any other hairy situation they’d got themselves into.

Harry squeezed the dirt between his fingers, relishing the cool earth as it compacted and shifted to accommodate him. It was slightly damp from the warm greenhouse spell, the humidity in Harry’s garden remaining high and balmy, his plants happily flourishing and lush as ever. Harry glanced around his jungle-like garden and felt a sense of peace.

Since being assigned with Draco, he had really grown to appreciate the strength of their partnership. Harry had seen an entirely new side to him while they worked together. He found that Draco was clever and strategic. They made an excellent team, even when they were butting heads and disagreeing on aspects of their cases—all of which they solved, no matter how often they bickered their way through it. When it came down to it, they both became serious and immersed themselves in being Aurors, pulling on their training to complete their work for the DMLE.

There were already whispers in the Auror offices of either of them being good contenders to move up the ranks of the DMLE offices, even to Head Auror. Harry bucked at the idea of heading the Aurors. He was more comfortable in the field, where his strengths balanced Draco’s puzzle solving skills and intuitive nature. Harry thought he would hate being Head Auror even more than being a field Auror, but he could see Draco as an excellent Head Auror because he had a knack for handling and understanding the office politics far better than Harry could manage. Harry could easily picture him running the Auror force with efficiency and it made affection wash over him.

As Harry continued to catalogue the different ways in which Draco highlighted his day, he sat up straighter, his hands clenching in the soil and grass as something important occurred to him.

Harry realised, with alarming clarity, just how long he’d been harbouring…actual _feelings_ for Draco—dormant beneath the surface of their friendship and partnership.

Harry sucked in a breath of humid air and collapsed back against the grass. It was like a floodgate had opened and a rush of tangled emotions began to pour through him.

Harry thought of every time Draco smiled at him, stood too close, or their hands brushing when they passed paperwork back and forth between their desks. He vividly pictured the way Draco traced his bottom lip with his ornate quills when he was deep in thought, and the way Draco licked his fingers after eating chips to lap up the salt left behind, and the way his cheeks would go pink when he was commended by Robards for a job well done.

Harry’s breaths came quickly, his chest rising and falling as he lay in the grass staring up at the net of magic bordering his garden and keeping it suitable for his plants.

He knew he thought of Draco often, that he found him attractive—hell, Harry had even _wanked_ over him before—but he didn’t _know_ he felt so deeply for him. Wasn’t aware that he wanted more than just a professional partnership with Draco. Had no idea that he might even be in—

Harry’s eyes widened when he thought back to the time they had been on patrol outside of the warehouse where Rowe had busted a gang of creature traffickers, when Draco had massaged his leg because it was asleep. His skin tingled with the memory of Draco’s hands on him and his breath hitched.

He didn’t know how he could have possibly been so blind—he was an _Auror_ and it was in his bloody job description to be observant. A slightly hysterical laugh began to bubble out of Harry, rolling through him until he was clutching his sides in stitches, breathless and leaking tears from the corner of his eyes when they crinkled.

“I’m an idiot,” Harry mumbled to himself after his laughter finally died away. He pushed his glasses up on top of his head and scrubbed a hand over his face, peering up blindly at the grey sky.

He knew he needed to speak to Ron and Hermione immediately about his revelation. Harry rolled to his feet and dusted the dirt from his clothes. He stopped inside for a cold Pumpkin Juice, and went upstairs to shower.

*******

Harry’s hair was still wet when he tumbled out of Ron and Hermione’s Floo, coughing on smoke and soot in his rush. Hermione jumped at his unexpected appearance and let out a little yelp of surprise.

“Harry,” she said. “Is everything alright?”

“’Mione,” Harry said breathlessly, his eyes wide and wild. “I need to talk to you guys—I was—and then it occurred to me that—”

“Why don’t you come and sit down,” Hermione interjected. She put a comforting hand on his arm, squeezing it and smiling up at him. “I’ll make us some tea. Ron’s at the Burrow, but I can call him back. We’re always here for you in your time of crisis.”

Harry rolled his eyes and pinched her side without any power behind it. “Hilarious.”

“Aren’t I?” Hermione smirked at him and held his hand to tug him in the direction of the kitchen. “I hope if it’s another Dark wizard after you that you can hold off for several more months,” Hermione bit her lip when she looked over his shoulder, “because Ron and I have been talking about getting married…and maybe children.”

Harry tripped over his own feet and spluttered. “Hermione!” He wrapped her up in a hug and spun her around the kitchen. “That’s brilliant!”

Some of Harry’s panic faded at her announcement; he was too full of love for his best friends to have his head stuck up his arse with his own dilemma for a few minutes. Hermione laughed and kicked her short legs in the air. Her natural hair bounced back and forth like a cloud as she shook her head.

“Put me down, Harry James Potter!” she commanded, giggling. “Merlin, it’s not like it’s that much of a surprise.”

“It is! You’ve only just moved in together,” Harry said seriously, gently placing her feet back on the floor. “I mean, you’ve been together forever—and you’re definitely moving slower than everyone else who got together after the war—but still…marriage!”

“I know,” Hermione said, covering her smile with her hand. She turned away to set the kettle to boil on the hob. “Ron’s already asked me twice; I was worried he would develop a complex if I said no a third time.”

Harry laughed and came up behind her to give her another hug. “He just really loves you.”

“He does,” Hermione said fondly. “Promise to act surprised when he asks you to go shopping for a ring with him, though, alright? Sit down; I’ll send my Patronus to call him back from the Burrow.”

Harry took a seat at the table while Hermione conjured her silvery otter and sent it off with her message. She joined him and propped her chin in her hand.

“Is your crisis going to ruin this cheerful mood?” she asked.

“Er…I don’t think so?” Harry answered, unsure. Hermione raised an eyebrow dubiously, and Harry tacked on, “It doesn’t have to do with any Dark wizards fixated on my demise.”

Hermione relaxed at that. “Well, there’s a plus.”

Harry tilted a deadpan expression at her. There was a _pop_ in the sitting room that announced Ron’s arrival. He lumbered into the room looking windswept.

“Where’s the fire?” he asked, going to the stove first to turn off the kettle as it began whistling. Ron helped himself to tea, ticking his wand in the air to Summon an extra mug from the cupboard and the milk. When he was done pouring tea, he levitated the mugs to the table and sat down with Harry and Hermione. “Is it Voldemort again? Listen, mate, is there any way to push that back a bit, because ‘Mione and I—”

“She already told me the good news,” Harry said with a wry smile.

Harry thought it was funny how couples that had been together for a long time could be on the same wavelength. And then it occurred to him that he and Draco worked that way, to an extent, after being partners for several months and attached at the hip during training. His face went hot at the comparison of partnership to _partnership_ and he sucked his lips between his teeth. Harry fiddled with his tea, adding milk and sugar to distract himself.

“Well, if it’s not imminent death and an extended trip on the run in a tent that smells of cat piss, what is it?” Ron prodded. He peered at Harry over the lip of his mug with an observant expression that made Harry feel exposed.

 _He really would’ve made a great Auror if he finished training_ , Harry thought. He scratched at the back of his neck. “So…you know how Malfoy and I have been Auror partners for a while…”

“Yes,” Hermione said slowly. She exchanged a loaded glance with Ron.

“I sort of…discovered that I really like being his partner,” Harry said haltingly. He wanted to cover his face when both of his friends’ eyebrows shot up in unison.

“I should hope so, mate,” Ron said. “It would be right awful if you still hated each other and were forced to work together.”

“Right,” Harry said, coughing. “Er, well it’s just. I really, _really_ like being his partner.”

“I’m not seeing the problem here,” Hermione said, brows pinched together and forming a wrinkle.

“I like Draco,” Harry blurted, eyes wide. His heart sped up at admitting it out loud. “I have feelings for him,” he clarified. “For—for a while now, I think. I only just…came to the conclusion today.”

Ron and Hermione shared another look. Harry barreled on, unable to stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth.

“He’s so clever and he really gets me—it’s like we fit together, even when we’re at odds because we’re fighting,” Harry said. “And I don’t know what to do or what this means. I really enjoy working with him; I don’t want to throw that away.” Harry made a frustrated sound and took a fortifying gulp of tea to give himself courage. “But I also…just want to spend long hours kissing him until my lips are numb.”

There was a beat of silence at the table that Ron broke.

“Merlin’s saggy pants, Harry, have you got into the Besotted Biscuit Bites George has been trying to market as a new product?” Ron asked. He looked hopeful, like he really wanted that to be the answer to Harry’s madness. Ron and Draco never buried the hatchet between their families, not entirely. They tolerated each other at best.

“I…am shocked I didn’t see this coming,” Hermione added with a bubble of laughter, looking mildly bewildered. She blinked and met Harry’s eyes. “I know you’re very close with each other. And you’re just realising this now?”

Harry shrugged helplessly, his emotions swirling through him.

Hermione continued, waving her hand emphatically. “You’re so oblivious sometimes for such an observant person. Have you told him about this?”

“Not...no, not in so many words.” Harry coughed, deciding it would be wise to leave off the fact that it wouldn’t be the first time he’d snogged Draco. Or even the second, or third, if they were going to split hairs. He made a weak sound and slumped to the table.

“I love being his Auror partner; I couldn’t imagine being assigned to anyone else—not even Seamus,” Harry said despondently. “He’s the one thing that really keeps me there.”

Ron blinked and sat forward. “Harry…are you—are you not happy working as an Auror?”

“I don’t know,” Harry mumbled, curling his hand around his mug to try to absorb its warmth. “Some days yes, some days not really.”

Hermione made a sympathetic sound and reached across the table to touch his hand. “Oh, Harry. Why haven’t you said anything?”

Harry hitched his shoulder. “Didn’t want to admit it. Or be a burden.”

Ron scoffed and pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you ever say that again. You are _not_ a burden—you’re family, you crotchety, stubborn arse.”

Harry smiled and turned his face into his arm, flooded with love for Ron and the Weasleys and Hermione—everyone who had taken him in when he was an orphan. “’M sorry,” he said, muffling it into his arm where he hid his face.

“Well, now that you’re sorry, we can move on,” Hermione said briskly, ever the pragmatic one. “First things first: what are the regulations about workplace relationships between DMLE employees?”

Harry sat back up and tried to remember the exact policy for code of conduct set by the DMLE’s Kindness and Respectability Ministry Administration.

“They frown on fraternization,” Harry answered. “It states something like ‘ _not permitted under the express liability of the safety of on duty Aurors in the field_ ’, because it could be dangerous and skew our judgment. People still do it, but partners rarely get away with it because if it gets out then it makes them vulnerable to attacks from Dark wizards.”

Harry’s heart soured, his stomach roiling at the thought of Draco being kidnapped to get to Harry.

“Okay,” Hermione said. “And the other thing to consider here is whether or not Draco shares these feelings.”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, dropping his eyes to the table. “I know—I mean, I think, anyway—that he’s also into blokes.” He took a long breath and blew it out quickly, deciding to tell them anyway. “We’ve sort of, er, shagged before.”

“Was it that one night after the Leaky when we all thought it would be a brilliant idea to go to that club at two in the morning during training? When you and Malfoy were all over each other on the dance floor, grinding on each other?” Ron asked, seeming more resigned to the idea of them together.

Harry’s head shot up. He had no recollection of that night. “ _What_?”

“Merlin, I really should’ve seen this coming from that night alone—Malfoy had eyes only for you and the _look_ on his face when you punched the Muggle that wanted to dance with Malfoy—” Ron covered his face with both hands. His ears were going bright red. “Oh my god, Harry. It’s all so clear to me now. That ferret makes that face at you _all the time_ when you aren’t looking.”

Harry shot Hermione a look. She didn’t look as shocked at the story, her lips curling into a wry grin. Harry held both of his hands up. “I don’t remember that night. And it wasn’t then. It was that end of the year party Seamus organized at Hogwarts.”

Harry’s heart was beating hard and fast, feeling nearly like it was thumping against his ribcage to be let out and go to Draco. Harry had only just figured out what his own feelings were; it never occurred to him that Draco might have an interest in him—especially when he hadn’t known him to have a boyfriend or even a girlfriend in all their time since Hogwarts. For all Harry knew, he was the only other bloke Malfoy had ever been with, and that sent a heady rush of possessiveness through him, making him sway slightly in his chair.

But the fraternization rule. Harry leaned back heavily in his chair and tilted his head to look at the ceiling. No matter what Harry or Draco felt for each other, there was nothing that could happen between them while they were both Auror partners. He sighed and leaned forward on his elbows.

“Thanks for letting me talk it out,” Harry said.

“Of course, Harry,” Hermione said. Ron nodded. “We’re always here for you.”

Their conversation trailed away from Harry’s problems and meandered back to Ron and Hermione’s plans for their future. Harry listened attentively; he was joyously happy for them. He laughed when they told him of how they had been ducking Molly’s unsubtle hints for more grandchildren and prodding questions about whether they would like to use the Burrow for their wedding.

He spent a few hours in their company before returning to Grimmauld Place. He called for Kreacher to ask if he might make him dinner, not feeling up to cooking for one. Harry deposited himself onto the sofa and fished _Anthology of Indian Mythology_ from where it had been left and found the chapter he was in the middle of reading. He settled in, rubbing his socked feet together and pushed his feelings for Draco down, locking them away.

*******

Harry rifled through his post at the kitchen table while he waited for water to boil. He tossed aside the _Daily Prophet_ in favour for a letter from Parvati. He slid his thumb beneath the seal to break the marbled purple and gold wax she used and unfolded the letter.

> _Hello Harry!_
> 
> _Padma and I would like to extend an invitation for you to join us at our family’s upcoming reunion celebration. Our aunts and uncles are coming to visit and we’d love to have you over for dinner. We hope you’re able to make it! Owl me back by Thursday to let me know, if you wouldn’t mind._
> 
> _Holi is coming up quite soon, too! We should all go to the festivities together! I think you’ll like it a lot._
> 
> _—Parvati Patil_

Harry was smiling by the time he was done reading the short note. There was warmth lighting him up like a bright candle at the Patil twins’ acceptance of Harry. The way they welcomed and accepted him chased away any doubts he had about not completely belonging to his Indian roots because his parents weren’t there to raise him, or because he had mixed blood.

Harry Summoned some fresh parchment from a drawer in the kitchen and penned a quick reply to Parvati accepting the invitation. His kettle whistled as he was folding his letter and Harry got up to remove it from the heat and pour his tea.

He tucked the note into his work satchel to post from the Auror office when he went in the next morning, then picked up his tea and walked into the sitting room to turn on the television. EastEnders was on and it made Harry think of Draco. He settled into the armchair with a faint smile and left the programme on, even though he didn’t like it very much. He sipped his tea and closed his eyes, his mind idling.

It was so different to work alongside Draco after he became aware of his feelings. On Monday after chatting with Ron and Hermione, Harry had pulled up short when he reached their cubicle and felt as if Draco could see the truth of his feelings written across his face, plain as day. Draco raised an eyebrow at Harry and sniped at him to get to work, because he wasn’t going to carry Harry’s arse for him. Harry nearly blurted that he very much wanted Draco’s hands on his arse.

He managed to get through that week, barely. Two more weeks passed and Harry only became more aware of how much harder it was to control himself around Draco when all he wanted to do was sneak away with him to a broom cupboard to snog.

He didn’t know what Draco would think of Harry’s wishes. When Harry thought back to how he acted after their one off in eighth year, his heart sank. Harry was under the impression Draco regretted what they’d done when he acted like nothing happened in the morning. Harry could barely admit how crushed he had been at the time, but he didn’t push it because he feared ruining their friendship. He couldn’t lose Draco. If it meant he wasn’t allowed to have him, then he wouldn’t; Harry contented himself with being just friends for years, all through training and as Draco’s trustworthy partner.

He sighed and set his mostly empty cup on the side table. Harry supposed he could try to get back on the dating scene, but even thinking that made his mood sour. He knew what he wanted; it was just out of his reach, tied behind Ministry policy and potentially repressed sexuality. When Harry considered it, he couldn’t remember ever seeing Draco date anyone, or even snog anyone despite how often his eyes strayed to fit blokes while they were out.

He woke with a start when his Floo chimed to signal a call. Harry looked around, blearily blinking the sleep from his eyes. He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but the clock on the mantel informed him it was twenty past seven, so he’d been out for a while.

The Floo chimed with more urgency—an annoying adjustment that Draco had made one day when he was tinkering with Harry’s Floo settings. He said something about all proper wizard homes being set up that way. Harry rubbed a hand over his face, feeling groggy. At the moment, he found the chime bloody annoying.

He hauled himself to his feet and padded over to the fire where it was flashing from green to orange to green again. Harry grumbled under his breath and looked around for his wand, patting his pockets. When he came up empty, he grew aggravated and waved his hand in a forceful manner at the Floo. The chiming ceased and the flames turned green.

“About time, you lazy sod!” Draco’s voice filtered through the fire, crackling and popping with puffs of smoke. Harry rubbed his eyes and tried to ward off the dull ache in his head from sleeping for too long. “You took ages to answer, Potter. Do you see now why I insisted on the chiming ward? Circe’s tits, man, what if it had been an _emergency_?”

Harry snorted and folded onto the hearth. “If it was an emergency, then I would advise you to use your Patronus and not the Floo.”

“Yes, well,” Draco said. The fire moved in what Harry guessed was a dismissive hand gesture from Draco. “Can I come through? I’ve got something for you.”

“Sure,” Harry said, jaw cracking on a yawn.

He shuffled back to give Draco room to come through the Floo and blindly held up his hand for Draco to help him up from where he knelt on the floor. Draco made a _tsk_ sound and hoisted Harry to his feet, muttering, “Unbelievably lazy arsehole,” under his breath. Harry still heard it, smirking.

Draco took a moment to dust invisible soot from his clothes and straighten his tie. Harry blinked, growing more aware. Draco only did that when he was nervous about something. Harry gestured at the sofa in silent invitation.

“Come on, let’s sit. I made tea a while ago, but I don’t think I put a Stasis Charm on it, so it probably needs reheating,” Harry offered.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Draco said. He held himself with effortless grace when he sat on the sofa, folding his ankle over his knee with poise that Harry didn’t possess.

Harry dropped onto the sofa beside him and furtively admired Draco’s slim ankle where his trouser leg rode up. Harry licked his lips and cleared his throat.

“What brings you by?” Harry asked.

“Antiques,” Draco said succinctly.

“I don’t follow,” Harry said after a beat where Draco looked at him expectantly. “You said you had something for me?”

Draco shifted slightly and adjusted the hem of his trousers. He took a breath and peeked at Harry through his lowered lashes.

“I have a gift for you,” Draco said. “I didn’t really expect to find anything—but then my dealer came across it. I wanted to give it to you for Christmas, but it took longer to restore than I expected.”

“Oh?” Harry tilted his head with curiosity.

Draco looked away from him, attention caught on the telly for a moment. “You were watching EastEnders? I thought you hated it?”

“Er—yeah,” Harry said, feeling caught. “It was on when I fell asleep. Couldn’t be bothered to change the channel.”

“I see,” Draco said, sounding inexplicably pleased. He turned back to Harry and seemed to regain some of his usual confidence. “The thing is, Potter, I’ve seen how much you’ve been connecting to the self-discovery journey you’ve been on. Family is important and that connection is something I can understand on a deep level.” Draco hesitated, fingers finding his pocket and pulling out a shrunken object. “I wanted to do something for you because of that.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling light he might float away. “That’s—thank you.”

“I haven’t even given it to you yet,” Draco point out.

“Well, give it to me, then,” Harry said, chuckling.

Draco opened his palm and touched the tip of his wand to the small object. It wobbled in his hand and he cupped it with care while it gradually grew back to its normal state. Harry blinked. It looked like an old vase.

“You got me…a pot?” Harry asked.

“It’s much more than that,” Draco clarified. He turned it around in his hands and showed it to Harry. “I found this as part of an auction in New Delhi and had it restored for you. It’s a Potions Settling Vase from ancient India. It was used to steep potions that needed to rest before the final brewing stages.”

Harry’s hand froze in the air, hanging between them where he was about to touch the pottery. It was beautifully crafted; it was squat and wide, slightly resembling a cauldron. Harry could see how it could be useful with potions brewers. It was made of a matte red ceramic and polished black material. Harry carefully touched it, brushing his fingers over the geometric shapes that decorated it.

“Thank you,” Harry said, still fixated on the vase, tracing the pattern in the shapes. “I can’t believe you bought me a magical antique from India.”

“That’s not all,” Draco said quietly. There was something in his voice that tugged at Harry’s attention and made him look up. “There’s more. Look at this.”

Draco turned the ancient pottery over to show off the base. At first, Harry didn’t know what he was meant to be looking at, but then Draco’s fingers smoothed over a mark. It looked like it was branded there by magic. Harry tilted his head. It was familiar, somehow.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“ _That_ ,” Draco said with a hint of pride in his voice, “Is the same symbol used in the logo on the Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion Label. Potter…this belonged to your grandfather.” Harry’s head shot up and met Draco’s gaze. His eyes were burning bright. “I did some serious digging once I found it. Slughorn knew a Potions Master who knew a Potions Master who had a _portrait_ that used to know Fleamont Potter when he was developing his famous potion. He confirmed that Fleamont had a Potions Settling Vase. I think it was this one.”

Harry swallowed thickly. The magnitude of Draco’s gift bowled him over. He cradled the vase carefully in his palms and turned it back and forth, marveling that he was holding something that actually belonged to his grandfather. It was another tangible piece of Harry’s past—one he would cherish as he did any scraps he found of his family history.

Harry was so overwhelmed; he couldn’t contain the desperate sound that tore out of his throat. Harry put the gift on the table and turned to Draco. He was trembling, feeling like he was going to come apart at the seams, breathing shallowly. If he wasn’t careful, he might vibrate right out of his skin.

“Draco,” Harry breathed. He felt like he was an exploding star, the force of his longing singing him around the edges.

Draco sucked in a breath at Harry’s reverent, watery tone. Harry couldn’t shut up once he’d uttered his name. He scooted closer. Draco met his eyes and Harry saw constellations in them.

“Draco…Draco,” Harry whispered. Draco swayed toward him as Harry leaned closer. “I need—”

Harry swiftly closed the gap between them and pressed his lips to Draco’s. Harry made a weak sound. They were just as soft and warm as he remembered, the memory sharpening in his mind as he kissed Draco. Harry made pleading, desperate sounds, almost whimpering when Draco finally came to life. He surged back against Harry, gripping his shoulders and encouraging Harry to clamber onto his lap.

Harry sounded like an animal, wild and rough, and when Draco made an answering sound, Harry shuddered against him, gasping. He squeezed his thighs around Draco’s hips, rocking in his lap against the growing hardness in Draco’s trousers. Draco reached up and buried his hand in Harry’s hair, dragging him back for another kiss. Harry sucked on Draco’s bottom lip and nipped at it. Draco bucked beneath him and slid his other hand down to massage Harry’s arse.

They moved fast; Draco wrestled Harry onto his back and sat astride his hips. Harry’s fingers scrambled to loosen Draco’s tie and flew over his buttons, hungry to reveal more of his porcelain skin. Draco’s hands felt burning hot on Harry’s skin when he slipped his fingers beneath Harry’s jumper. Harry was achingly hard, his groin throbbing insistently. Harry wormed his hand between them to pop the button on his jeans and wiggled until they were halfway down his hips. He kicked his legs fruitlessly and a garbled sound escaped him when Draco rediscovered the sensitive spot on his neck, mouthing at it with a precision that had Harry’s balls drawing tight.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned needily. “Yes. _Come on_. Help—need to feel you.”

Draco ignored Harry and continued mapping his neck, sharp teeth scraping over his skin in a way that Harry knew would leave marks. He shuddered again, happy to bear Draco’s possessive marks on his body, wanting to be his completely.

“Potter,” Draco muttered hotly against his skin, breath ghosting across Harry’s neck in damp puffs. Harry’s toes curled at how wrecked Draco sounded.

“What do you need?” Harry asked. “Need to come?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Draco said demandingly, rolling his hips down against Harry. “Want to come with you.”

Harry moaned and renewed his efforts to divest them of their clothes. His enthusiasm left Draco with a button popping off his shirt and a fierce look in his eyes.

“Fix it later,” Harry said impatiently. “Just need to feel your skin against mine, _please_.”

Draco’s expression melted into one of pure lust and he nodded urgently, muttering agreements under his breath. He worked his wand free and tossed it onto the coffee table. Draco sat up and finished opening his shirt and shrugged out of it, allowing Harry a moment to run his palms over his chest, gasping when Harry pinched his nipples.

“God, Potter,” Draco whined. “Stop distracting me if you want to get off.”

“Can’t help it,” Harry said, wrapping an arm around Draco’s waist and exerting his strength to bring Draco’s chest close enough to tease and torture Draco’s nipples with his teeth and tongue.

The sounds Draco made were music to Harry’s ears; he writhed in Harry’s arms. Harry was overcome with a desire to tame him and be ravaged by him at the same time. All of his pent up feelings flowed out of him, making it hard for Harry to focus on anything but Draco.

“Want to show me your cock?” Harry rasped. “I want to see it again. It’s been so long.”

“Fuck yes,” Draco said emphatically. He was breathing heavily, not even aware of how he was circling his hips against Harry’s erection, causing blissful shocks of pleasure shoot up Harry’s spine and heat coil in his groin.

Draco shot up from the sofa to remove his trousers and pants with swift, efficient movements. While he was up, Harry squirmed the rest of the way out of his jeans and wrestled out of his jumper, feeling his hair sticking up as a result. Draco pinned him with a hungry look, nimble fingers joining Harry’s to free his dick from the confines of his pants and straddled him again. They both cried out when their bodies slid together. Draco covered Harry’s body with his, leaning down to cage Harry in with his arms. He rutted his cock against Harry’s, the sticky head dragging along Harry’s flushed skin. Harry ran his hands over Draco’s back and gripped his arse to thrust up against him.

He leaned up and kissed Draco, tasting the citrusy tang of bergamot on his tongue. Harry groaned into it and kissed him like a man drinking from an oasis in the desert. Their mouths moved together and the rutted together with a vital need. Happiness and desire and relief were all crashing together in Harry’s mind. The smallest touch felt like so much more, everything felt _infinite_ ; Draco’s fingertips burning hot paths across his skin made Harry want to cry and scream and yell for days. It was all welling up in him and he rocketed toward his release with alarming speed.

Draco sat up, looking sinfully good straddling Harry’s hips, his cock standing rosy and proud, the hood of his foreskin pulled back by Draco’s hand where he circled his fingers around himself.

“Yes,” Harry said brokenly. “God, show me, Draco. Wank for me.”

Draco’s dark eyes fluttered shut, his lips parted and gasping for each breath he dragged into his lungs. His chest was blotchy with colour and his hair was falling into his face. He took his prick in a firmer grip and pumped his hand over it twice. His eyes snapped open and he shuffled forward, readjusting to wrap his and Harry’s cock in his hand. Harry arched back on the sofa, warbling out another moan when Draco squeezed them together, holding their dicks tightly in exactly the way he needed.

Harry watched, riveted by the sight of Draco’s hand moving over their shafts. Harry was close, so close, but he needed something else. The same feeling of teetering on the knife-edge of falling apart returned. With shaking hands, Harry reached up and tugged purposefully to bring Draco back down to cover his body once again.

“Need you,” Harry said tightly. “Kiss me?”

“Merlin, yes, Potter,” Draco said against his lips. He covered Harry’s mouth with his, kissing him with a hungry fierceness while his hand sped up on their cocks.

It was mad, the way Harry felt, but there was such a sense of rightness to it while the heat coiling tighter and tighter in his body. It was almost as if they were two souls meeting as one, across a different lifetime as different people—maybe they were always meant to come back again and again as soulmates.

Harry gasped raggedly at the stray thought, shying away from how _right_ it felt because he wasn’t ready to face something that deep.

Draco kissed him intently and his hips juddered, cock sliding next to Harry’s.

“Close,” Draco rumbled against Harry’s lips. Harry nodded in agreement. He was right there, if Draco would just—

Draco twisted his hand over the head of Harry’s cock.

Harry locked his arms around Draco in a strong hold, his entire body seizing with the strength of his orgasm when it hit him. Draco squirmed in his arms; Harry could feel his fist still flying over their cocks as he came, spilling over Draco’s knuckles. A beautiful sound escaped Draco when he followed Harry into bliss, one that Harry wanted to bottle up and relive in his Pensieve until the end of eternity. Draco tensed and cupped his hand over his cock when he came. Harry was lethargic with the force of his orgasm; he struggled to make his fingers work, weakly trying to pull Draco’s hand away because he had to _see_. Draco’s hand dropped away, coated and sticky with come, and Harry got to watch the last feeble spurt seep out of the tip and dribble onto Harry’s stomach.

They were left panting and quivering with aftershocks. Draco collapsed on top of Harry without pretense, or grace, making a mess of both of them. Harry stretched and ran a hand through his hair, wincing when he hit a snag. His glasses were half-fogged and sliding precariously down his nose from sweat. He tilted his head back so that they slid back up the bridge of his nose. Harry wrapped Draco up in an embrace, tracing his fingers up and down his back.

If Draco planned to leave this time, Harry would fight him and convince him to stay. He couldn’t go back to acting like they were just friends, not a second time.

Draco shifted and Harry made a small sound, thinking he was getting up.

“Don’t go,” Harry said.

“I’m not; I’m just getting itchy from drying come,” Draco said irritably.

Harry let out the breath he’d been holding. Relief resonated through him. “Oh. Here, let me.”

Harry twitched his fingers and felt the ripple of the Cleaning Charm clear away the mess and sweat from their skin. Draco leaned up on his elbows and gaped down at him.

“Did you just—? _Wandlessly_?” Draco looked like he was ready to go for another round. “Why haven’t you done any around me before?”

“Yeah? I can do a bit of it,” Harry said, hitching his shoulder. “I only do it when it’s convenient. It’s not a big deal.”

“It bloody well _is_ ,” Draco said. He shook his head and huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out with this. Ridiculous.”

Harry shoved Draco and grinned when he lost his balance and flopped back onto Harry with an _oof_. Harry encircled him once more with his arms; he couldn’t keep his hands off him. He could already feel his dick stirring, beginning to swell against Draco’s hip.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you really…? Merlin, you’re insatiable.”

“Consider it four years of pent up tension,” Harry said, eyeing him to watch for his reaction. “I’ve…wanted to do that with you ever since the first time we did it.”

Draco hummed and turned his head to rest his cheek on Harry’s chest. Harry started carding his fingers through his soft hair. Draco made a pleased sound. They luxuriated in the afterglow for a few minutes. Draco broke the quiet, tilting his head to look up at Harry.

“Listen, Potter,” he said. “About what happened in eighth year…”

“Yeah?” Harry prodded.

Draco sighed. “I did like you, even if I could barely admit it to myself. But I was still figuring out how to buck my father’s wishes. I hadn’t quite come to terms with being allowed to choose a man to be with publicly.” Draco sighed and shifted to place a trail of kisses up Harry’s neck. “Even though I’d known for much longer that I only felt attraction to men.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, sliding his palm up Draco’s back. He pulled him into a brief, tender kiss. “I should’ve talked to you after. I just…assumed that the way you acted after meant you didn’t like me. I thought you regretted it and wanted to stay as friends. I was too afraid to mess things up between us to be honest about what I really wanted.”

Draco chuckled and bumped his forehead against Harry’s jaw. “Pair of nutters, we are.”

“Mm,” Harry agreed.

“I probably wouldn’t have been ready to do anything more than what we did, though,” Draco admitted. “I was shocked to see people like Finnigan and Thomas comfortable with being open about their relationship, while I was still hiding in the shadows.”

Harry let out a long breath. “And now?”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked.

“Do you feel the same about this stuff now as you did back then?” Harry bit his lip. His stomach flipped over when Draco leaned up again to look him in the eyes.

“Now…” Draco said. He ran a hand down Harry’s side and shifted to cup Harry’s half-hard dick. “Now I’d like you to take me upstairs.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Draco pinned him with a heady, half-lidded look full of heat.

“You want more?” Harry asked.

“I want you,” Draco said, tone lush and sultry.

“Up you get, then,” Harry said.

They got up from the sofa and Harry took Draco’s hand to lead him to the bedroom.

Draco stopped them on the landing, pulling Harry into a kiss. Harry broke out of it laughing, entwining their fingers to drag Draco the rest of the way up the stairs. There was an easy openness to Draco’s face, like Draco had opted to give Harry his whole being. They reached Harry’s bedroom and Harry couldn’t help himself—he wrapped his arms around Draco and hoisted him up with a grunt, depositing him on the bed, his lithe body bouncing when he hit the mattress. Harry took off his glasses and set them on the bedside table.

“If you think you’re just going to toss me around like that, you’ve got another thing coming,” Draco said, looking up through his lashes and propping himself up on his elbows.

“Your cock says otherwise,” Harry said. He climbed onto the bed and covered Draco’s body with his.

It felt like he was slotting into place, where he belonged.

Harry hummed and mouthed his way across Draco’s collarbone. Draco sighed softly and tipped his head back to grant Harry better access, then growled and twisted his body so that he had the advantage, flipping Harry over and hovering over him with a predatory grin. His hair hung over one of his eyes. Harry gave into Draco’s control, gladly stretching out his body as an offering for Draco.

They rolled around the bed, trading positions and pressing hot, wet kisses to any inch of skin they could reach. They teased each other back to full hardness, their fingers exploring and taking their time, instead of rushing like they had downstairs. Harry spent long minutes rutting into the back of Draco’s thigh, raining kisses down all over Draco’s back while he keened and ground his leaking cock against the sheets.

Harry sat back some time later and propped his head in his hand. Draco rolled over to attack Harry with more kisses and Harry skimmed his hand up Draco’s side. He ran his fingers through Draco’s hair and gave a gentle tug to get his attention.

“Hey,” Harry said. “Will you come sit on me?”

“I was doing that earlier,” Draco said slyly, rocking his lower half and catching the slick head of his cock against Harry’s abdomen.

“Yeah, but I want you to sit on my face now,” Harry said, low and throaty.

Draco’s lips parted on a sharp breath. “Oh, fuck, Potter. Yes, okay. Here…let me…”

Harry grinned eagerly and shimmied into a better position at the centre of the bed while Draco kneeled up. He brought his hands up to help guide Draco when he swung a leg over his head so that he was facing Harry.

“Have you ever—like this?” Harry asked. His hands slid up Draco’s thighs, squeezing them encouragingly. He tilted his head back, his mouth watering at the sight of Draco’s cock, ruddy and ready, hanging above his face.

Draco shook his head, seeming unsure of what to do with his hands. “Not…ah, no. Not like this.”

His eyes skittered away from Harry and his hand closed into a fist where it hovered over his stomach. Harry reached up to take his hand and directed it to Harry’s chest so that Draco could support himself more easily in the position.

“You look amazing like this,” Harry breathed. Draco’s cock bobbed right above him. “Going to suck you now.”

“Oh my god,” Draco said. Harry angled his head and closed his lips around Draco’s tip, laving it with his tongue. Draco shifted, arching his back so that he could thrust shallowly.

Harry opened his mouth wider to take him deeper, stretching his lips over Draco’s length. He moaned at the weight of Draco on his tongue. He rubbed it against Draco’s foreskin to tease it and wanted to grin triumphantly at the way Draco tensed, hips hitching. Harry smoothed his hands over the parts of Draco’s body that he could reach, finally settling with his palms on Draco’s arse. He gave a squeeze and a tiny push to let Draco know it was okay to move.

Draco’s panting breaths sounded harsh in the room, edged with faint moans on the tail end of each one. He began to roll his hips, sliding his cock in and out of Harry’s mouth while Harry sucked him. His hands were planted on Harry’s chest to balance himself over Harry’s body. When Harry’s tongue teased the slit, Draco’s knees shifted like he wanted to close his thighs around Harry’s head. Harry smirked around his mouthful of cock and sucked him down deeper, lifting his head to take more in.

“C-Circe, Potter, that’s—yeah, _yes_ —so good,” Draco said brokenly.

Harry loved the ragged edge to his voice, loved being the reason Draco was falling apart. He flexed his grip on Draco’s arse and spread Draco’s cheeks.

Draco made another half-warbled moan. “Can you—with your fingers? I need…more.”

Harry groaned, his own hips thrusting into the air. His cock throbbed, as hard as marble and curving onto his hip. He mumbled a spell around Draco’s cock—causing another shivery breath from Draco—and felt his fingers slide with slippery conjured oil. Harry sucked harder, slurping wetly, and marveled at the sounds Draco was making. He was _loud_ and gorgeous and Harry almost wished he could be out of his own body just to see what they looked like—to see Draco’s face in that moment.

Harry drew in a breath through his nose and found the crease of Draco’s arse. He glided his fingers through it, skimming over the furled hole teasingly. Draco’s whole body twitched, seeking more. He pumped his cock into Harry’s mouth and pushed back against his fingers.

“More, you fucking tease—come _on_ ,” Draco demanded.

Harry found his hole again and circled it, adding pressure slowly with each pass. He flicked his tongue along Draco’s length and wriggled a fingertip into his arse. He started off slow, keeping the focus on the suction of his mouth, working the finger in and out until Draco’s hole loosened enough for Harry to pull nearly all the way out and sink back in with one smooth slide.

Draco’s back arched and his hand slid on Harry’s chest. Harry tried to say his name, but it came out muffled around his mouthful. Harry worked another finger in alongside the first and curled them deep inside his hole. Draco’s fingers dug into Harry’s skin and his whole body shuddered, his cock swelling thicker on Harry’s tongue.

“I want—I…want to,” Draco babbled, practically incoherent. “Have to suck you, too, Harry. Going to.”

Harry fucked his fingers into Draco’s hole and dug his heels into the bed, thrusting up into the air to show his approval. Harry twisted his fingers and pumped them in and out in a slow drag, stroking Draco, searching for the spot that would make him sing.

Draco practically collapsed over Harry’s body; his cock hit the back of Harry’s throat and Harry almost choked. Draco let out a half-hysterical laugh, snorting into Harry’s thigh. He got his elbows beneath him, finding his balance again, and when his fingers circled Harry’s cock he gave it a few pumps. Harry’s toes curled and his thighs flexed; he pushed into Draco’s grip and hummed around Draco’s cock.

“Fuck, you look big from this close,” Draco said.

Harry snorted and withdrew his fingers to tease Draco’s rim. He felt Draco’s forehead drop to his hip and Harry kept at it, alternating between feather-light touches and firm presses that made Draco hiss.

Draco retaliated by leaning up and swallowing Harry’s cock halfway into his mouth. Harry keened and thrust his fingers back into Draco as a reward, earning a similarly needy noise from Draco.

Harry wanted to be able to speak, to tell Draco how good his mouth felt or how wonderful it was to have his whole body covering Harry’s, but couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Harry used his tongue and his fingers to tell Draco; he worshipped his cock and arse with attentive focus while Draco’s mouth mirrored Harry’s ministrations.

Draco’s head bobbed over Harry; his mouth alternating between sucking on him and pulling back to lick at the head. What Draco lacked in technique, he made up for with determination and a skill for finding and torturing the most sensitive parts of Harry. He cupped Harry’s balls with one hand and rolled them, massaging them while he dragged his tongue over Harry’s cock; he made hungry sounds when he sucked Harry and Harry’s mind fogged over with pleasure.

Harry spread his legs when Draco’s fingers trailed lower, behind his balls. Harry took a second to struggle for focus, closing his eyes and mumbling around Draco’s shaft once more. Draco gasped—his fingers coated with conjured oil. He seemed to like it a lot when Harry did wandless magic; his cock throbbed on Harry’s tongue and a hoarse sound tore out of his throat.

Draco’s slick fingers slid further between Harry’s legs and Harry moaned invitingly in support of Draco’s exploration. Harry spread his legs even wider and angled his arse so that Draco was able to find his hole. Draco rubbed his fingers over Harry’s puckered hole and Harry writhed for him, desperate sounds issuing from him.

Harry redoubled his efforts, sucking Draco down to the root and holding him there while he crooked his fingers where they were buried inside Draco. He knew he’d found the spot when Draco’s whole body froze; he popped his mouth off Harry’s cock to sob, Harry’s wet dick resting against his cheek. Harry worked his mouth on Draco’s length and rubbed small circles over Draco’s prostate.

“Fuck, Po—H- _Harry_!” Draco cried, thrashing. He pumped his hips and drove himself into Harry’s mouth. Harry stayed open and relaxed for him, his whole body tingling with heat.

After a minute, he attempted to regain control over himself, enough to return to tantalising Harry. Draco mouthed at Harry’s cock, growling lowly, and sucked him down with wanton abandon. He speared Harry with a long finger that had Harry clenching in pleasure. He opened Harry up and added another finger, reaching deeper than Harry could with his own.

A ragged sound burst out of Harry. If he was a more patient man, perhaps he would have brought out his modest collection of plugs and toys, but he was too eager to come to stop long enough to retrieve them.

They teased and sucked and fucked each other, goading one another closer to the edge. With his fingers buried in Draco and Draco’s deep inside him—their cocks nestled in their mouths—Harry was in awe by how connected they felt, even though they weren’t face to face, like in flowery literature. Draco was covering nearly every inch of his body and filling him up and he was doing the same to Draco. There was barely a way to tell where one ended and the other began—opening up to each other at last, finally at the same time.

And then, all at once, it was too much for Harry to handle. Draco’s fingers curled and _pressed_ as he sucked Harry hard. Harry’s world exploded in a fiery burst of bliss, his orgasm leaving him twitching and convulsing as he shot come into Draco’s mouth—he didn’t even have time to give Draco a warning.

Draco sputtered and pulled back, catching some of it on his tongue. Harry could feel his cock dribbling against Draco’s cheek and pictured his come leaking from the corner of his mouth; another broken sound ripped from his throat at the image, his cock throbbing.

Harry dragged his fingers over Draco’s prostate, then pulled back and speared them back into the same spot. Draco gasped and Harry saw his balls draw up against his body right before Draco muttered, “Going to come,” and seizing. A second later, Harry felt Draco’s cock pulse against his tongue releasing a wet splash of come. Harry’s jaw worked as he sucked him through it, swallowing it all down.

“Fucking hell, Potter, that’s brilliant,” Draco breathed in a raspy tone. He rested his forehead against Harry’s hip, panting and moaning faintly while the last of his release spilled down Harry’s throat. “Bloody good cocksucker, you are. Oh my god.”

They rested like that for a few minutes, catching their breath and recovering, bodies exhausted. Harry’s limbs felt like liquid; he thought he might actually be able to fall asleep as he was, with Draco’s softening cock still touching his lips. When he felt like his soul had returned to his body, he gently removed his fingers from Draco’s arse and patted his bum. Draco groaned and, with great effort, moved off Harry’s body. He flopped gracelessly to the side, tossing an arm over his eyes.

“You’ve killed me,” Draco said.

Harry huffed out a laugh and attempted to get up, giving up when it seemed too much effort and collapsed against the mattress. “Thanks for stroking my ego.”

Draco swatted at him with his free hand, scoffing. “Don’t be bothersome. Merlin, I wish I could go again; I’d feed you my cock just to shut you up.”

Harry rolled to his side and buried his face against Draco’s thigh.

“Can’t. It’d be a miracle, but I’m knackered,” Harry said. “As much as I want to lose myself in you again. Later?”

“Later,” Draco echoed.

Harry slowly sat up, wincing when his dick protested from oversensitivity. He looked down and bit his lip. Draco had Harry’s come all over his cheek. There was a thin line of it that connected to the corner of his mouth. Harry leaned down to kiss him, tasting himself on Draco’s tongue.

Draco’s eyes were gleaming when Harry pulled back. He swiped his thumb over his bottom lip and licked it clean, attention focused on Harry.

“Christ—don’t,” Harry pleaded, dropping a hand to his soft dick where it twitched feebly. With great effort he held his fingers up to Draco’s face and cast a Cleaning Charm. It took longer than usual, but it was still effective in clearing away the mess. Harry’s arm dropped. “Sorry. Tired. You took a lot out of me.”

The corners of Draco’s lips curled up, making him look like a pleased cat. It was a look Harry was fond of, and he wasn’t going to forget that he got to see it in bed.

Harry stretched and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Er, want to stay the night?”

“Wow, Potter,” Draco said, snickering. “What a gesture. You’re so suave and romantic. A real debonair kind of chap.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, flicking his knee. “Do you want to? You can. I’d…really like it if you did.”

“I’ll stay,” Draco said. The pleased cat smile stretched into a softer one that caused Harry’s stomach to swoop.

Harry played with Draco’s hair again once they were settled under the sheets. He was surprised that Draco let him, seemingly content to have Harry touching him. Draco’s leg hooked over Harry’s, nestling between his thighs and his fingers were twirled the sparse patch of hair on Harry’s chest. Harry felt warm and happy and well-fucked. He knew the smile on his face was a dopey one, but he couldn’t do anything to contain it.

Just as Harry was drifting off to sleep, Draco’s voice pierced his thoughts.

“My Mind Healer told me gardening was being explored as a potential avenue of therapy for people that suffer from the effects of the war,” he said.

Harry made a noncommittal sound and stretched. He was tired and unprepared to rehash a conversation he’d had with Hermione countless times; she was still trying to convince him to see one—even for one session. Draco knew Harry didn’t see one, just as Harry knew he did.

“When I first started seeing her…Merlin, it was a nightmare. I could barely open up to her,” Draco said. “I was…angry.”

“We all were, after the war. Even though eighth year was great,” Harry said.

“Blaise had a drinking problem,” Draco said seriously. “It took me two years to convince him to get some help for it. I’m…worried he’s off again. I never knew therapy could be so difficult.”

“Hermione always says it’s like another job,” Harry said. “I guess that makes sense, though. It’s not like magic can just fix you so you’re healed.”

Draco found Harry’s wrist and wrapped his fingers around it, anchoring both of them.

“Why did you bring this up?” Harry asked curiously.

“Because you’re the only one who understands,” Draco said, so quietly that Harry had to strain to hear him. “I talk to her and tell her about the things that still haunt me and the awful things that happened back then…she stares at me and says things that help—but she’s young and she was never touched by the war. She doesn’t _know_ what it was like.”

Draco shifted restlessly, his fingers tightening on Harry’s wrist. Harry turned onto his side and pulled Draco close, pressing his lips to Draco’s forehead.

“Shh,” Harry hushed him. He rubbed soothing circles against Draco’s back. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago. Everything’s…better now. We’re fine.”

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and scooted down to hide his face against Draco’s neck. Draco squeezed him tightly, digging his nails into Harry’s skin for a few seconds. Harry could feel the stinging imprint of them when he relaxed.

“I’ve still never seen a Mind Healer, you know. Hermione’s always been trying to get me to,” Harry murmured. “And that one time you brought it up at the pub. I think I always thought that…if I went, I’d have to relive it all. And it was so hard to deal with all the pain and grief the first time, when it was raw and new. I’m…afraid to unload that all again.”

Harry could feel Draco’s throat move when he swallowed convulsively.

“You could—come with me. To one of my meetings,” Draco offered in a stilted voice. “Or—or if that’s too much, I could recommend my Mind Healer to you, and you could make an appointment on your own. When you’re ready.”

There was a line of tension in his shoulders that Harry rubbed at, massaging him until he relaxed again.

“I probably should,” Harry said. “Maybe—to start, just on my own. I have…there’s a lot. I’d hardly know where to begin.”

Draco snorted into Harry’s hair. “Believe me, Potter, I know. It was hard enough going through the war, but then before I knew it I was spilling things about my parents that I never dreamed of uttering aloud to anyone.”

Harry’s laughter rumbled out of him, shaking them both.

“Okay,” Harry said, giving in to the thing he’d been avoiding for so long. “I’ll make an appointment.”

Draco made a happy sound and rolled over so that Harry was spooned behind him. He tugged at Harry’s arm so that it was draped over his waist and threaded their fingers together, holding it close to his heartbeat. Harry rubbed his nose against the back of Draco’s neck and drifted to sleep with a smile on his face.

*******

Harry’s body felt like it was attuned to Draco after their night together. He hovered around him in the kitchen while Draco set the table for two.

“That’s about to boil over,” Draco said absently while he opened a bottle of wine.

Harry wheeled himself around and ignored the pull to return to Draco’s side to lower the heat beneath the pot on the hob. Once the food was seen to, he gave in to the urge to sneak looks at Draco. He was still in the suit he wore beneath his Auror uniform at work, looking sharp in navy dress slacks and a crisp shirt. The tie around his neck was knotted in a perfect Windsor. Harry wanted to slowly slide the knot free and kiss Draco’s neck. He licked his lips and transferred the stew into a serving bowl.

“It’s ready,” Harry announced.

Draco brought the wine bottle to the table and poured both glasses with practiced ease. Harry’s eyes caught on his wrist, marvelling at its elegance; he was surprised that after all the time he’d known Draco that he could still find new ways to be mesmerised by him.

They sat down to eat and Harry served the stew.

Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off Draco as he ate; his eyes were glued to the way his mouth closed over the spoon and the arch of his neck when he sipped his wine. Christ, Harry wanted him again. But he also wanted to share a meal with him and wake up to his face in the mornings. Harry’s stomach went tight at the thought; he couldn’t contain the stupid smile that stretched across his face.

“What’s that look for?” Draco asked, surveying Harry over his wine glass.

Harry coughed and swallowed a bite of stew to cover up his sappy expression. “Nothing.”

Draco considered him, pursing his lips. He set his glass down and pinned Harry with a piercing look in his eyes.

“Potter, is this a date?”

Harry inhaled quickly through his nose and tensed.

“It can be—I’d like that. As long as you’re okay with it, that is.” Harry was tripping over his words, feeling off-kilter.

Draco opened and closed his mouth twice, looking suddenly flustered but pleased by Harry’s answer. “Oh.”

Harry’s face heated, but he tucked into their dinner instead of saying more. A few minutes later, he saw a secretive smile tugging at the corners of Draco’s mouth that made joy soar through him.

They finished eating, filling the quiet with idle conversation until Harry felt himself relaxing. He didn’t have reason to be awkward around Draco; nothing had changed between them. It wasn’t like they hadn’t got off together before; this time they were just acknowledging it rather than sweeping it under the rug. Harry could feel the difference in the way they behaved around each other—the way their bodies were like flowers searching for the sun in one another. Harry liked it and had to keep himself from reaching out to brush his fingers over Draco’s wrist at the Auror office.

They were putting their dishes in the sink when Harry bumped against Draco’s shoulder and felt a shift in the air. Draco turned to him, eyes focused on Harry’s lips. Harry set his empty dish down and wiped his hands on the dishrag hanging over the lip of the sink and angled his body in Draco’s direction.

“We’re going against Ministry policies if we keep this up,” Draco said, as if it was already decided where the night would be going.

Harry’s throat bobbed when he swallowed. “I thought my rule breaking turned you on. Is this one of those rules you’re going to bend to suit yourself?”

“Maybe,” Draco answered, eyes fiery. “But I’ll have to be careful about it.”

“We both have experience with that,” Harry breathed, stepping closer like an invisible force tugging around his navel drew him in with purpose. He knew what was coming. “And then there’s that little thing where you scored the highest marks in Evasion and Stealth during training,” he added when he was a hair’s breadth from Draco’s lips.

He waited, allowing Draco to decide if he was going to close the distance between them. They hovered there, breathing in each other’s air. It was a heady sensation to be so close and still not touching. Anticipation crackled across Harry’s skin, travelling down to his fingertips.

“There is that,” Draco said. “I’m quite excellent at my job.”

Draco closed the space with a sound that was rough around the edges, lips colliding with Harry’s and searing him with a rush of heat and desire. Harry made a broken sound and met the force of Draco crashing against him like a wave. They stood at Harry’s sink, tongues sliding together, trading sounds while their hands rediscovered one another once again.

*******

Harry and Draco put up a perfect front of professionalism while at the office while keeping their dalliances behind closed doors at Harry’s house and Draco’s flat. They began to slowly sneak around, dating in secret despite the policies forbidding their relationship. Harry didn’t care; the Ministry could go fuck itself as far as he was concerned.

Harry was too busy with learning and testing out all the ways he could turn Draco into jelly, fucked out and shivering, his eyes liquid when they turned on Harry. It became his life’s mission to keep Draco that way as often as possible.

They hadn’t put a label on what they were doing. Harry was okay with that, content to just go on as they had been and soaking up all the time he spent with Draco. They still went to their favourite local for pints of Carling and salty chips; Draco still made faces, his eyes tearing up when he tasted curry that was too spicy for him to handle while Harry laughed heartily. They still worked fluidly as partners—maybe even better now that they were even more in sync. There was just the added benefit of fucking each other senseless and sneaking off at the weekend to seaside villages for some alone time together.

Out of everything they’d done, Harry was happiest when he had Draco in his bed, his head on Harry’s chest while he fell asleep to the sound of Harry’s voice reading mythologies aloud to him. Harry felt an incandescent happiness at being able to share that with Draco.

What they were doing worked, for the time being—until Harry began feeling restless once more.

Harry couldn’t put a finger on when it started, but he knew he had to do something about it soon. There was only so much spending time with Draco or his friends or his plants could do to soothe Harry’s mind when work made him unhappy.

He debated with himself, zoning out in his garden and mumbling to the plants when Draco wasn’t there to tease him about it. When he finally came to a decision, he knew he would have to tell Draco.

The opportunity came when they were curled up on the sofa at Draco’s flat, sinking into the leather cushions on a rare lazy Saturday afternoon. Draco had been angling to get Harry to suck his cock, dropping hints that were heavier and heavier until he was whispering huskily in Harry’s ear. Arousal swirled in Harry’s groin, but he ignored it in favour of what he had to tell him.

“Draco,” Harry murmured, turning to catch his lips in a kiss before he leaned away. Draco hummed into the kiss, tilting his head for a better angle. When Harry pulled back he touched their foreheads together.

“What is it?” Draco asked. His hands strayed, running over Harry’s chest and sneaking under the hem of his flannel shirt to skate across his skin.

“I,” Harry said. He hesitated, blowing out a rough breath. Part of him was afraid to admit what he wanted aloud. For all that he was brave in a duel, admitting to his true desires frightened him.

“Come on. Tell me, or I’m going to pin you down and shove my cock in your mouth,” Draco teased, his voice silky with promise. Harry’s own dick twitched in interest, half swollen from Draco’s unsubtle seduction tactics.

Harry leaned away slightly to look him in the eye. Draco sat back, one leg tucked beneath him and his hand propping his head up. He was looking at Harry expectantly with an underlying patience that Harry was learning to recognise, when before he might have thought Draco was being snippy with him.

“Okay, sorry—it’s just…hard to actually say.” Harry swallowed and took one of Draco’s hands, twining their fingers together to still feel connected to him before he made his announcement. “I’ve secretly been considering my future as an active Auror.”

Draco sat up straighter, pulling his head away from his hand. He made a gesture for Harry to continue, despite looking like he wanted to say something. Harry smiled at him appreciatively.

“It’s just…well, I love being your partner. Honestly, that’s the highlight of my day,” Harry said sincerely. “There’s just times when I find the work frustrating, or boring, or…or…not what I expected it to be. I’ve been struggling with feeling unsatisfied as an Auror, and I might’ve just soldiered through it, only, when West asked me to assist that Duelling Tactics class…” Harry trailed off for a minute, squeezing Draco’s hand. Draco was watching him intently. “I really liked doing that. It felt… _right_ for me in a way that being an Auror doesn’t sometimes.”

“Alright,” Draco said slowly when Harry paused for a minute. “Harry, you’ve become a very good Auror. We work well as a team.”

“I know,” Harry mumbled, feeling hot all over. “I do like that part. Being with you every day—I couldn’t imagine being anyone else’s Auror partner, or not seeing you all the time. I just…I don’t know if I can do this forever.”

Harry made a broad gesture with his free hand, trying to find words to encompass all the things he meant by his words. He couldn’t be an Auror forever; didn’t want to hide his relationship with Draco forever; couldn’t see Draco in danger in the field and panic that he wasn’t enough to keep him safe.

Draco had an unreadable look on his face for a moment. He chewed on the corner of his lip and gripped Harry’s hand tighter for a beat, almost as if he was afraid of Harry leaving him. Harry’s heart clenched and he squeezed back.

“Harry, I trust you as my partner. That trust is not easily won,” Draco said slowly. Harry made a sound of assent. “You’ve always had my back, and I’m going to have yours. How long have you felt this way?”

“Since the start of it. Maybe before I even joined the Academy,” Harry said quietly.

Draco looked away. “It’s funny,” Draco muttered when he slowly turned around again. “Back at Hogwarts, before N.E.W.T.s I’d had a thought in passing that you might make a good professor. I’d imagined you teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts there.”

Draco’s voice was restrained, but as he spoke his words began to flow out of him. His voice was fond and soft. “I’ve seen it, back when you ran the D.A., Harry. You’re good at it; it makes you light up and become exceedingly confident. You,” he paused, eyes flickering back and forth over Harry’s face, “You shine brighter than the sun. That’s what you look like when you’re helping someone.”

Harry’s whole world went sideways at that. The look on Draco’s face was… _everything_. His hand shook with a slight tremor when he raised it to cup Draco’s cheek, stroking his thumb affectionately over it. His heart was melting until it felt like it was bursting out of him like stardust. They remained quiet while they looked at each other, emotions flowing back and forth between them without either of them needing to say it.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, because, _holy shit_ , he was an inch away from falling in love with Draco Malfoy. That is, if he wasn’t already there. He couldn’t tell for sure; was this what love felt like? His stomach swooped pleasantly and Harry thought that it might be.

“Thank you,” Harry said reverently. It was such a small thing, but Draco’s encouragement and support felt like he was giving Harry the courage he needed to give _himself_ permission to pursue what he truly wanted.

*******

Harry discussed it with Draco, Ron, and Hermione and finally came to a decision about transitioning into an Instructor position for the DMLE to handle the incoming trainees. With their support and his determination, he took his decision to his superiors to request the transfer.

Harry was gripping the arms of the chair he sat in, watching Head Auror Robards across the desk. He wasn’t as keen on Harry’s choice to leave the force. He argued that Harry was young and inexperienced.

“Look, Potter,” Robards said in a gravelly voice that lacked patience. “This is something all new Aurors go through. Hell, went through it myself in my day. It’s growing pains, is all.”

“Sir, with all due respect, that’s not what I’ve been dealing with,” Harry said. He squeezed the arms of the chair tighter to keep his temper under control.

“You’ve barely been an Auror for more than six months and we’ve only just started assigning you and your partner more heavy hitting cases,” Robards argued.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Am I inexperienced, though?” he countered. “You wanted me straight out of the war, but I still went through the training. I had to be quick on my feet and have defended my arse against Death Eaters and Dark wizards since I was eleven. I’ve even had some teaching experience.” Harry was gaining steam, leaning forward in his chair to make his point. “I’ve been on active duty for long enough to gain real world knowledge—and between that and my history, I think I’m qualified for the position.”

Robards sighed heavily and rubbed his fingers into his greying brows. “Potter,” he rumbled wearily, but Harry cut him off before he could say more.

“Please, sir,” Harry implored. “I’m not happy here. This is what I’d like to do. The Ministry’s got new Aurors coming up through training every day; you don’t need me.”

Robards looked at Harry for several beats. The silence hung in the air between them. Harry swallowed, uncomfortable with the amount of emotion that had crept into his voice when he made his final plea to transfer. He held his ground, unwilling to give up and let Robards strong-arm him into staying. If he tried, Harry would quit and go to McGonagall. He only chose training Aurors over Hogwarts because he wanted to remain close to his family and friends—wanted to stay by Draco’s side.

Just when Harry was gearing himself up to storm out of Robards’s office and shout his resignation, Robards grumbled under his breath.

“Alright, then,” Robards said at last. Harry froze, shock tearing through him. Robards pointed a stubby finger at Harry. “Fill out the transfer paperwork and have the packet on my desk by the end of the day. I’ll approve it for you under the stipulation that you understand that as reserve Aurors, Instructors are sometimes called in to assist on cases when the force is short handed.”

Harry blew out a breath. “Of course, sir,” he mumbled. Belatedly, he added, “Thank you.”

“It’s a damn shame to lose an Auror with as much promise as you’ve got, Potter,” Robards said. “But I can’t force you to stay when your heart’s not in it.”

A brittle laugh fell from Harry’s lips. He covered his mouth with his hand and coughed. He couldn’t just come out and say that his heart was _too_ invested in his Auror work without admitting he was sneaking around with Draco. “Thank you, sir,” Harry said instead.

He stood and shook the Head Auror’s hand with a firm grip. Relief poured through Harry as he turned and left, feeling nearly in a hazy fog as he walked back to the cubicle he shared with Draco. He was waiting for Harry when he returned, and he looked up at him expectantly.

“Well?” Draco prompted.

Case files were spread on Draco’s desk and his favourite peacock feather quill was in his hand. A steaming cup of Earl Grey sat on the corner, well out of the way of the reports. Harry broke out into a grin. Part of him would miss this day-to-day, would feel an ache of losing Draco’s partnership along with hanging up his rank as active duty on the force.

“He’s going to approve the transfer,” Harry said in a rush.

Draco’s grin matched Harry’s in brightness and Harry’s felt a pang of love for him. That was a better reward than savouring him as his Auror partner, especially when the gleam in Draco’s eye meant they would be celebrating later in a much more intimate way than the handshake of congratulations Draco offered while they were in public.

“Later,” Draco murmured as close as he dared to get to Harry in the office. His eyes flickered around the room to be sure no one was paying any attention to them. He squeezed Harry’s hand once in a silent code before pulling away and returning to his report. “Whatever will I do without you hindering my case paperwork.”

“You’ll manage, I’m sure,” Harry said, laughing.

He sat down at his desk and swiveled back and forth in his chair. He felt that same sense of standing on a precipice that he had experienced at the end of eighth year at Hogwarts. Harry smiled to himself and looked at the golden, elephant-headed figuring that stood proudly on his desk. He’d read that Ganesh was a symbol of beginnings and this felt like Harry was embarking on yet another new path in his life, one that felt true to Harry. He smiled at it and sent a silent thanks to whatever deities might be listening.

*******

A week later, Harry was clearing off his desk and packing it into a box. He picked up his favourite book about Indian Mythology in connection to magical history that Padma sent him as a gift; he tucked it safely into the box alongside his framed portraits. His friends and family were all waving up at Harry, having a party of their own when they picked up on Harry’s good mood. He lifted his golden Ganesh figurine next and nestled it inside the box of his things. One of the last items on his desk was a picture frame that displayed Fleamont Potter’s note to Sirius. Harry hesitated before picking it up, skimming his fingertips over the corner. He silently reminded himself that he always had connections, even when he couldn’t see them.

Harry smiled and put the last of his things into the box. It seemed strange looking from his barren desk to Draco’s, where there was still an abundance of files strewn about. They weren’t in the same impeccable order that Draco typically kept them in; Draco was moping and pouty, taking less care with his desk to test his new partner.

“I can’t believe I’m losing my amazing partner to _education_ ,” Draco lamented dramatically, put out and sullen.

Harry snorted; he knew it was mostly an act. Draco had been soft and warm that morning, blinking sleep from his eyes and settling between Harry’s legs when Harry murmured, “Good morning,” to him. Draco had rumbled a smoky laugh and promised him that it could get better before he took Harry apart and put him back together again. Harry tilted a fond look at Draco and winked.

Harry put his hands on his hips and surveyed their cubicle. His Auror robe still hung on the peg next to Draco’s cloak. Instead of active duty gold bars on the shoulders, his robe now sported silver bars and a grey pin on the lapel—the mark of the Auror instructors.

“If you keep moping I’m going to cancel the celebratory dinner reservations I’m not supposed to know about,” Harry said.

Draco narrowed his eyes and sat up straighter. Harry swore the temperature dropped two degrees from his look alone.

“Walk me to my new office?” Harry asked, ignoring the false ire in Draco’s eyes.

Draco sighed. “Fine. But, listen, Potter, you’re taking a very important Auror away from his desk. That could be very dangerous.”

“I’ll feel safer for having you by my side, then,” Harry said smoothly.

He knew Draco wasn’t serious about any of it. They’d both agreed that it would be better this way—K.A.R.M.A. wouldn’t be able to come down on both of their heads for sneaking around and they wouldn’t get distracted on patrol because they were too busy snogging each other in an alleyway. That only happened one time, but all the same. Draco had been furious with Harry for convincing him to do it; they nearly missed stopping a robbery because he was too wrapped up in the thrill of kissing Harry in uniform.

“At least I don’t have to get a new uniform,” Harry said absently, mouth twitching in amusement at the memory. Draco had been _really_ into being allowed to touch Harry in his Auror robe. Harry hadn’t been complaining, either.

Draco swatted at him and Harry retaliated with a twitch of his fingers, sending Draco’s signature Stinging Hex at his arse. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk when Draco yelped in surprise.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Draco said accusingly, rubbing at his thigh where the hex had hit him. Draco narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t even have your wand out; that’s an unfair advantage.”

“Constant vigilance. Aurors must be on alert at all times to avoid attack,” Harry intoned, folding his arms behind his back.

Draco snorted. “Oh hah bloody hah, you twat. Settling into your new position already, I see.”

Harry shrugged unapologetically. He levitated his box of belongings from his desk and turned to walk around the edge of cubicles with Draco at his side. He grinned and snatched Draco’s hand impulsively, threading their fingers together. Draco flinched for a second, whipping his head around.

“Harry,” he whispered.

Harry’s grin stretched wider. “No longer partners. I can hold your hand proudly now, Draco.”

Draco’s cheeks tinged a rosy pink. He smoothed a hand over his hair in a self-conscious gesture and surreptitiously looked around the room. No one paid them any mind and Draco relaxed marginally as they left Auror Headquarters. They walked hand in hand down the corridor; Harry bit his lip, suddenly overwhelmed with a wash of emotion that they were able to do that now. Draco squeezed his hand and slanted him a careful glance. He smiled weakly at Draco and squeezed back, rubbing his thumb over the back of Draco’s hand. He was glad to have a partner that understood him so well—better than a friend or family could.

Draco was able to read Harry in a way that made Harry think of the things he read in books about souls finding each other through lifetimes, a bond forming between them that was unbreakable and deep. Harry thought he might have found that in Draco; he wasn’t ready to say it in words just yet, but the thought brought clarity to how Harry was never able to ignore Draco—always felt drawn to him.

There was only one more way he could join them together. With the excitement of the transfer to the Auror Training Centre, Harry hadn’t had time to ask Draco if he wanted something more serious with Harry than what they had been doing. He didn’t want to continue sneaking around; part of the reason he transferred was to be able to date Draco proudly and publicly. Harry wanted everyone to know how much he loved him.

Harry bumped his hip against Draco’s to get his attention. Draco turned to him with an inquisitive look, distractedly pressing the call button for the lift.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Harry said.

“Yes?” Draco prompted.

“Well, now that I’m an Auror Instructor, we both know we don’t have to follow the same fraternization policy,” Harry said slowly. Draco turned to face him fully, something sparking in his eyes. “So…I was wondering…” Harry licked his lips and Draco’s eyes darted down to his mouth. “Want to be the worse cop to my bad cop?”

Draco’s eyes met his once more and they looked luminous. His lips slowly curled into a wide smile. “You’re not an Auror anymore. Not on active duty, anyway. Wouldn’t that make you the worse cop in this situation?”

“Sure,” Harry agreed, voice going raspy from the way Draco was looking at him. His whole body tingled, alert in anticipation.

Draco laughed—a low, throaty chuckle that Harry imagined he could feel reverberating through his body. His knees went a little weak and he hoped Draco was going to answer him soon, or he might collapse.

“Is that a yes?” Harry asked.

Draco stepped forward, crowding Harry back against the wall. Harry’s heart fluttered pleasantly in his chest as Draco traced his fingertips up Harry’s arms, the light touch sending more tingles zipping through him. Draco leaned in to whisper against Harry’s lips.

“Yes,” he breathed just before closing the distance, kissing Harry in plain sight of any DMLE employees around.

Harry made a sound in his throat and wrapped his arms around him to pull Draco even closer into the embrace, his heart singing the loudest it ever had.

_THE END_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [livejournal](https://hd-erised.livejournal.com/93414.html). ♥
> 
> This story is part of an on-going anonymous fest hosted at hd_erised@livejournal.com. The author will be revealed January 8th.


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